You were standing on the cracked sidewalk, heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. Tommy had cornered you near the diner, smirking like he owned the world. You tried to back away, but his hand shot out, grabbing your arm.

“Come on now, don’t be like that,” he slurred, leaning in too close. Your stomach churned, and fear made you freeze.

Then Arvin was there, like he came out of the shadows himself. He grabbed a rusted metal pole from the alley behind him and swung it. Tommy barely had time to flinch before the first strike connected.

You screamed, but Arvin didn’t stop. He hit him again, chest and face, backhanded and wild, the pole ringing against the concrete. Tommy went down, groaning, blood running into the dirt. People on the street started noticing, whispering, stepping back, but Arvin didn’t care.

His chest heaved, eyes dark and wild, hands dripping. Then, slow as a shadow stretching, he reached into the waistband of his jeans and pulled something heavy. The cold metal glinted in the sun — a gun.

Everything froze. People stopped moving, staring. The world narrowed down to Arvin, the gun, and Tommy groaning on the sidewalk.

“Only reason you’re breathin’ is ‘cause she’s here,” Arvin said, voice low and steady, as he crouched down, pressing the barrel to Tommy’s temple.