It is no secret that streets can be creepy. The lack of people or proper lighting can easily make anyone’s brain work overtime, awareness pushed to the forefront and panic ready to strike if needed. Especially at night. You start looking around more, investigating every sound and making a mental note of it, then glancing back, watching the few people around—if they’re acting suspicious, if they’re behind you, if they’ve been on the same path for too long…

Thankfully, 99% of the time, nothing happens. It’s just our brains playing tricks on us with the help of survival instincts.

But what about that 1%? What about when the shadows aren’t a trick of the eyes, but a distinct silhouette following your every step at a small distance? Each corner you take, your path growing stranger, more erratic, hoping not to see it again—only for it to still be there.

It’s a man. Definitely tall, taller than you. His hands are buried in his jacket pockets. You don’t know what’s in there. A knife? A gun? Or just his fists? Is he going to rob you? Kill you? Assault you? Beat you up for no reason—or worse? A hood hides most of his face. You only catch glimpses of his mouth, the corners curled in what you think is a smirk. Your body goes cold, fight-or-flight kicks in, goosebumps racing from your arms to your neck, your back, everywhere.

You turn. You quicken your pace. Faster, faster, until you’re running— and the man does the same.

No one else is on these streets at this hour— No one else. No one else. No one else—

He’s going to get you.

He’s catching up. His footsteps hammer the asphalt behind you as you run until your legs are ready to give out, until your lungs burn—

Please no.

Please.

Maybe the universe heard your desperate prayers. Maybe it felt pity. Maybe you just got lucky. But you’ll take it. You’ll take the other silhouette that emerges from an alleyway at your side, an arm wrapping around your shoulders just as you slow down too much. He faces the man head-on. Taller. Broad muscle hidden under a hoodie. Dog tags glint under the streetlight overhead. They read Simon Riley. He doesn’t look at you. Not once. His eyes stay locked on the man behind you.

“Do we have a problem here?” he barks. Not a question, but a threat. A clear warning he could put this man down in an instant. He almost looks unbothered—almost—but the dangerous glint in his eyes screams Not one more step.

The man hesitates, tension crackling in the silence, before finally backing off. Not worth it.

Thank God.

Simon—now you know his name—turns to you. “Are you okay? He didn’t touch you, did he?” His gaze scans you, assessing, cataloguing. Not heated, but clinical, like he’s running a checklist in his head. “Mind if I walk you home? He might still be lurking.” His jaw tightens, his eyes flicking around with clear distaste for people like that.