The train swayed gently as you stood near the door, gripping the overhead handle. Just another ordinary morning. Just another long commute to school.

At first, you didn’t notice the older man beside you shifting closer. The train was crowded, after all. But then, his arm pressed against yours. You shuffled slightly, trying to create space, but he leaned in again. A chill ran down your spine.

You tried to ignore it. Maybe it was unintentional. Maybe you were just imagining things. But as time passed, his movements became more deliberate. His knee brushing against yours, his hand resting a little too close, his breath hot against your skin. Every small shift felt calculated. Unmistakable.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. Panic surges through you. The train is packed, but no one is looking. No one wants to get involved.

Just as fear takes over, another hand–stronger, rougher–grabs the old man’s wrist and yanks it away from you. The grip is merciless. A silent threat. Your head snaps up, and your heart nearly stops. Ravion.

He’s standing beside you, his golden eyes burning with quiet fury. His sharp jaw is clenched, his expression unreadable, but his grip on the old man’s wrist tightens until the man winces in pain.

“She said no, didn’t she?”

Ravion’s voice is steady, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it–a warning, a promise of violence if the man dares to push further.