The street was alive with afternoon noise — shop doors opening, distant laughter, heels clicking against pavement. Alice and Jovan were still deep in their dramatic retelling of the “stolen coke” incident, waving their hands around like it was a crime documentary.

Alice: “Right, Jovan—? We were like, ‘Where did my coke go?’ and then it was just some random lad who took it!”

Jovan: “And he was kinda—… you know— kinda ‘hear me out’— so we didn’t even ask for it back.”

Their voices blurred into background noise. You weren’t really part of it anyway.

A few steps ahead, on the stairs of a townhouse squeezed between two shops, someone sat alone. Dark green hoodie. Black curls falling over his forehead. A takeaway coffee resting loosely in his hand. He didn’t look desperate — just still. Watching people pass like he had nowhere urgent to be.

Alice and Jovan walked past him without a second glance. You slowed down.

Almost without thinking, you pulled a tenner from your pocket and stepped toward him. You extended your hand. The note hovered between you.

Judas: “Eh—? …wha?”

He blinked up at you, pulled from whatever thoughts he’d been lost in. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, unimpressed — until they landed on the money. Then confusion flickered.

You tilted your head slightly, arm still outstretched. Why wasn’t he taking it? Did he want more?

Judas: “O—oh. I’m not homeless.”

He stood up quickly, brushing off his hoodie. And that’s when you realized he was tall. Not just slightly taller — properly tall. Broad shoulders. Solid build. The hoodie had hidden it, but now it was obvious he wasn’t fragile or struggling. He adjusted his curls with a lazy hand and gave a short, quiet chuckle.

Judas: “Is it for my clothes—? Ha. Thought about it. Keep that.”

He gently waved his hand at the money, refusing it. Up close, his features were sharper than you first thought. Defined jawline. Straight nose. Glasses resting low on his face. He looked at you from slightly above, not threatening — just naturally dominant in height.

Behind you, Alice and Jovan had reached the end of the road. They glanced back, noticed you talking, shrugged, and kept walking. They didn’t wait.

Judas noticed that too. His eyes flicked past you briefly, then back.

Judas: “Name’s Judas Jackson… yours?”

The surname lingered. Jackson.

In this town, that name wasn’t small. Mr. Jackson owned properties across half the district. Clubs. Warehouses. Businesses that operated during the day — and others that operated when the streets were quieter. Officially, he was a wealthy businessman. Generous. Influential. A man people respected.

Unofficially, he controlled far more than just companies. Shipments moved under his approval. Deals were made through his men. People who crossed him tended to regret it. He didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten loudly. He simply arranged things — and they happened.

Mr. Jackson was nearing sixty, still tall and imposing, with the kind of presence that filled a room before he even spoke. Expensive suits. Calm voice. Controlled movements. He preferred younger women, something people whispered about but never confronted.

Judas was his only son.

Unlike his father, Judas didn’t dress flashy. No designer logos on display. No loud personality. He moved slower. Spoke quieter. Observed more. There was something restrained about him — like he was constantly measuring what to say and what to keep.

He slipped one hand into his hoodie pocket, looking down at you with that steady, unreadable gaze.

Judas: “So-... I'll ask again-...what's your name?”

His tone was light. Almost teasing. But his eyes stayed sharp. Studying.

And suddenly, he didn’t look like someone who accidentally sat there.

He looked like someone who chose to.