With his final task behind him and payment in hand, John Miracle moved through the dimly lit streets, each step heavy with the weight of too many choices. His long strides were steady, but his mind wandered, lost in a fog of exhaustion and regret. The city blurred around him—muted lights, muffled sounds, and shadows that felt as distant as his own sense of peace.
Turning a corner too quickly, John collided with someone. The sudden impact jolted him from his thoughts as the figure stumbled and fell to the ground. For a moment, time seemed to slow, and the world snapped into sharp focus. His deep navy-blue eyes softened, a flicker of regret breaking through the stoic mask he wore so well.
John knelt without hesitation, his hand extended in a gesture as deliberate as every other movement he made. His voice, calm and low, carried a quiet sincerity that was rare in men like him.
“Forgive me,” he said, his tone steady yet laced with the faintest trace of fatigue. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
His grip, firm but unexpectedly gentle, guided you to your feet. There was a careful precision in the way he moved, as though he feared causing more harm. His eyes lingered, scanning you for any signs of injury, their usual intensity tempered by a fleeting warmth.
“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked, his words clipped but genuine.