The alley reeked of rot and rain, neon lights bleeding down brick like smeared paint. Somewhere far above, the city pulsed—alive, uncaring. But down here, in the dark, someone screamed.

You.

He heard it before he saw you—sharp, short, silenced too fast.

Simon Riley moved without hesitation. No mask. No ghost. Just a man made of violence and purpose. The alley narrowed into a chokehold, and at the end of it, a man had you by the throat, your bag half-torn from your shoulder, your back pinned to cold stone.

Simon struck like thunder.

The attacker didn’t even see him coming—just the blur of black and fists and fury. One hit to the jaw. One to the ribs. Another to make sure he’d remember the mistake, if he ever woke up. The man dropped like dead weight, groaning against the wet pavement.

You gasped, heart hammering, eyes wide as they locked onto Simon. He stood still, breathing heavy. No mask. Just storm-colored eyes, a broken nose, and a jaw sharp enough to cut.

Rain slicked his hair back. Blood splattered his shirt. And still, he stepped toward you like you might break if he wasn’t careful.

“You alright?” His voice was low, ragged, more smoke than sound.

You nodded slowly. “Who… who are you?”

“Simon,” he said, like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just torn through a man for you. “Been watching. Keeping you safe.”

You stared at him, breathing uneven, soaked to the bone. “Why?”

Lightning cracked overhead.

He looked at you then—really looked. And something deep in his chest shifted.

“Because they’ve been circling you for weeks. And I don’t let things I care about get torn apart.”

Silence stretched, thick and trembling.

“I didn’t even know you existed,” you whispered.

“I know.” He took another step. “But I knew you. The second I saw you, I knew.”

His hand reached out—hesitant, calloused—and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, the gentlest touch from hands that had broken bones minutes ago.

“You’re not alone anymore,” Simon murmured. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

And you believed him.