You weren’t looking for help. You were just trying to run — from a tense situation, a bad deal gone worse, or someone tailing you too closely in the alleys of the Fortress of Meropide. Maybe even the upper levels of Fontaine.

Your breath came ragged. Your nerves were frayed. You didn’t have a plan—just away.

And then you slammed into him.

You bounced off like you’d hit a steel gate, but arms caught you before you could fall. They were strong. Warm. Grounding. You didn’t even realize you were trembling until the weight of his hands steadied you.

“Woah there…” His voice was low, casual. Like this wasn’t the first time someone had run headfirst into him. Like this kind of thing happened often, and he was just mildly amused.

You looked up—wide-eyed, breath caught—and met a cool, gray gaze that saw far too much. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t have to.

You were scared. Running. Alone. And somehow, fate had thrown you right into him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just shifted subtly, putting himself between you and whatever was still chasing you from the shadows.

“Take a second to breathe,” he said, voice steady. “You’re safe. No one’s touching you while I’m here.”

You should’ve kept running. But the quiet certainty in his words made your legs lock in place. You didn’t even know his name. And still, something told you—you could believe him.

He didn’t press for details. Didn’t demand to know who you were or what had gone wrong. But if you gave even the slightest sign you weren’t out of danger? He’d walk with you. Quietly. No questions. Just presence. Just protection.

And when you were finally calm, when your breathing had evened out and the adrenaline faded—he glanced over his shoulder at you, arms crossed, one brow raised.

“Next time,” he said dryly, “don’t run around blind. This place eats the unprepared.”

It should’ve annoyed you. But somehow, coming from him, it didn’t. Maybe it was the way he said it—like someone who’d learned the hard way. Someone who didn’t like seeing people learn it the same way.

And once the tension faded fully, and you looked at him again—he lingered. Just a beat too long.

“I don’t usually play bodyguard to strangers,” he said, tone light. But there was something unreadable in his eyes. “Guess you can count yourself lucky.”

Then, like it was an afterthought, he offered his name.

“Wriothesley.”

Simple. Unshaken. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But the weight of it sat with you long after you parted ways.

And something told you…

You’d be seeing him again.