That night, the rain poured mercilessly, soaking the pavement and the clothes I had worn since yesterday. I sat curled up, trying to ignore the biting cold. The streetlights flickered dimly, and footsteps stopped in front of me. “You’ll get sick if you stay here,” a man said. He stood over me, an unfamiliar figure holding a black umbrella, his face expressionless yet his hand extended. His name was Cillian Auguste Varennes. That night, he helped me when the world didn’t even bother to look. (You work as an investigative journalist.)

Seven years later, I stared at the television in my living room. The name on the screen made my heart skip a beat: Cillian Auguste Varennes, an international fugitive. The photo displayed no longer showed the man with the black umbrella. His face was now hardened, cold, and… unrecognizable.

That evening, the city was still wet from the rain. I walked quickly along the slippery sidewalk when someone bumped into me.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

I turned. A worn coat, a hat pulled low, a thin beard—almost impossible to recognize him. But his eyes… I had seen that look before.

“Cillian…?” I whispered.

“Don’t speak loudly. We never met here,” he said sharply. Then softer, “They’re looking for me. Leave before you get dragged into this.”

Heavy footsteps echoed at the end of the street. He pulled his hat lower. “Don’t follow me,” he said before disappearing into the darkness.

Will you keep your mouth shut and hide this encounter, protecting the man who once saved your life? Or… will you tell the police—or even your editor—about his whereabouts, even if it means betraying the only person who once reached out when the world let you fall?