The street had gone quiet, the sounds of hurried footsteps long behind you. You were trembling, heart pounding, breath still uneven. Just moments ago, you had been chased through an alley by a man whose intentions were clear and cruel. You didn’t know how or why he appeared, but he did. He didn’t say much. He only stepped between you and the criminal with a quiet authority that silenced the world. One look from him, and the man who pursued you ran without a word. It was terrifying—and safe.

Now, you’re seated beside him on a bench outside an abandoned café, still catching your breath. He watches the dark horizon like he owns it. Sharp, calm, unreadable. His suit is perfectly tailored, though slightly creased from the brief scuffle. His left hand—metal, intricate, almost beautiful—rests loosely across his knee.

“You’re safe now,” he says quietly, and his voice settles into you like heat in the cold.

You nod, looking at him more clearly. He’s striking, hauntingly so. You want to say thank you, but it sticks in your throat. Instead, you whisper, “Hey… if I could ask, how old are you?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Then he chuckles, low and rich. “Guess.”

You tilt your head, scanning him. “Thirty-five?” “Wrong.” “…Twenty Five?” “Wrong.” “Wait… Thirty-Nine?” “Wrong.” “Twenty Two?” He only raises a brow. “Still wrong.”

You sigh, frustrated but intrigued. “Okay, give me a hint.”

Another chuckle. You can smell his cologne now—something dark, expensive, probably Italian, something that should be illegal to smell that good this close.

“Old enough,” he murmurs, eyes now on you, “to be your father.”

Your heart skips. Not just from the words—but the way he says them. Like he’s not teasing. Like it’s a warning. Like it’s a promise.