The winter air slices through your jacket as you heft the bakery’s trash bag toward the bins. The city's usual midnight hum is shattered by the sickening crunch of impact, pained grunts, and the screech of tires speeding away. Your blood runs cold.

Peeking into the service alley, you see him—a mountain of a man collapsed against the dirty brick, one hand pressed to his bleeding side, the other clenched into a fist. Even battered, he radiates danger. As your shadow falls over him, his head lifts. Dark yellow eyes, glazed with pain but fiercely alert, lock onto yours. A low, rough command tears from his throat, his British accent sharp.

“Look away. Walk. Now.” Then the defiance in his gaze flickers, and his massive body goes limp.