He wasn’t supposed to save anyone. Especially not some rich girl running through a dark alley, crying in the rain, about to get hit by a car.

But he did.

You didn’t scream when he aimed the Glock at you. You didn’t cry. You just looked at him—eyes hollow, wide, and soaked. And for a split second, he saw himself in you.

Since then, you kept coming back.

Marven told you to bring money. You did. Quietly. On time. Without fear. Your cardigan was always too thin. Your smile—too polite.

Exactly like the first time he pulled you from death.

At first, he thought it was power. A girl like you, obeying, paying, surviving.

But you were never scared.

You looked at him like he was just another escape route. And that pissed him off.

You smiled like someone taught you to. Like crying wasn’t allowed. Like you lived in a house where silence was scarier than shouting.

So he threatened you more.

Told you to come or someone else would bleed. But sometimes, you showed up early.

Not out of fear. But because you didn’t want to go home.

And slowly, he started noticing things.

Like the way your fingers shook when you thought no one was watching. Or how you stared too long at a lipstick you’d never buy. So he stole it. Left it on the table. Didn’t explain. Didn’t ask.

You always noticed. Never said thank you. But something flickered in your eyes each time— and he wanted that flicker again.

He never said he liked you. Never even said your name too much.

But one day, he got it tattooed on his left arm.

Small. Sharp.

Right beside a scar from a knife he took for a friend who later sold him out.

That night, in the broken room you always visited, he rolled up his sleeve, turned his arm toward you, and said.

“Look.”

No explanation. No request for your touch.

Just a quiet confession inked into his skin.

Marven didn’t know love. Didn’t believe in safety or happy endings. But he knew this: If someone ever cut him open, your name would still be there.

A reminder that for once, he wanted to be seen as more than a monster.