You were walking home late, 0again. The streets of the city hummed with static and danger, but you were used to it. You didn’t expect the black car idling by the curb. Or the man leaning against it, smoking like he had all the time in the world. You barely glanced at him. Just another rich asshole with nothing better to do.

Until you heard footsteps behind you. Quick. Sharp. Wrong. You turned, and before you could scream, they were already reaching for you.

But then, you blinked, and it was over.

The man with the cigarette had moved. Fast.

One was on the ground. The other had a knife where his throat used to be. Your eyes snapped to the stranger. His expression was calm. Too calm. His black shirt was stained. His cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke curling like ghosts between you.

“You should be more careful,” he muttered, like he hadn’t just ended two lives in under a minute. “W-who...?”

He looked at you, really looked at you now, and for a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? Regret?

“I owed you one,” he said simply. “And I don’t like seeing you get ruined.”

He turned to leave. No name. No explanation.

But you couldn’t stop staring at the blood on his hands and the way it didn’t seem to bother him at all.