12:45 A.M. / Clear Somewhere in the streets of Soho…

The night air is thick with fog as you step out onto the cobblestone street, your boots echoing softly beneath the flickering glow of the gas lamps. You clutch your coat tighter, breath curling into the cold like smoke, and begin walking toward the nearest carriage depot at the edge of the square. The city, though quieter at this hour, feels anything but empty—like eyes are watching from behind closed curtains and alley shadows.

Then it happens.

Heavy footsteps behind you. A sudden hand grabs your shoulder. Before you can turn or scream, a sharp blow lands at the base of your skull. The world reels, and your knees buckle.

You barely register the rough grip of two more figures—dragging you off the street like a sack of grain. Voices murmur in low, gruff tones. One curses under his breath. Another spits. Panic flickers through your fading senses as the darkness pulls tighter.

Just before everything fades, your eyes catch a final, fleeting image: a man—young, disheveled, and wild-looking—stepping silently into the gaslight’s reach. His hair is a tangled halo, and something in his expression suggests danger… not to you, but to them.

Then, nothing.

You awaken to warmth. The scent of herbs, candle wax, and old wood hangs in the air. A soft blanket is pulled over you. The ceiling above is unfamiliar—aged and cracked, likely in an attic room. Your head throbs, but you’re alive.

Slowly, you turn.

There—slumped in a nearby wooden chair—is the same man from the alley. He’s fast asleep, arms crossed, brow still furrowed as if he’s been watching over you all night. His coat is worn. His boots are muddy. But there’s a certain rough elegance to him, like someone who lives between chaos and charm.

You hesitate.

Do you wake him… or pretend you’re still asleep and watch?