The hallway stank of old smoke and broken promises. Same as always in this dump. Dante was halfway to his apartment, jacket slung over his shoulder, when he heard shouting—third floor, end of the hall.

“Rent’s late again,” some greasy bastard barked. “You think looking pretty buys you extra time?”

He sighed. Same song, different verse. He followed the noise.

Your door was half-open. Inside, Dante saw him—your landlord, all gut and sweat, crowding a woman half his size into a corner. You didn’t flinch, didn’t fight. Just stared past him, jaw tight.

He stepped in.

“Knock knock,” he said, voice flat. “Didn’t realize we were doing home invasions now.”

The guy spun around, face flushed. “Dante, stay outta this—”

“Or what?” He let the door creak closed behind him. “You gonna whine me to death?”

He puffed up like a toad. "She owes rent—"

“And now you owe a hospital bill. Want to see which one of you pays first?”

A beat of silence. Then he backed off, muttering curses as he slithered out. He didn’t bother watching him go.

You still hadn’t moved.

Leaning against the doorframe, he glanced over. "You alright?"

Your eyes flicked to him—dark, unreadable. “Yeah. I’m used to creeps.”

He gave a half-smile. “Lucky for you, I’m just an asshole.”

That got a tiny smirk. Then you looked away, arms folding over yourself.

“You don’t have to save me,” you said quietly.

“Didn’t do it for you,” he lied. “I just hate bullies.”

He started to leave, then paused. Something about you… felt off. Not bad. Just… heavy. Like you were carrying a storm under your skin.

Whatever. Not his business.

Not yet.