The city street was blocked off tonight—orange cones, barriers, and the low rumble of construction machinery forcing you off your usual route home. You sighed, pulling your jacket tighter against the late March chill, and turned down the narrow alleyway you'd always avoided. It was shorter, at least. Dim, shadowed by high brick walls, lit only by a single flickering streetlamp that buzzed like a dying insect.

Your footsteps echoed too loudly on the cracked pavement. You kept your head down, phone clutched in one hand, keys threaded between your fingers like a makeshift weapon. Halfway through, you noticed him.

A tall figure leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, baseball cap pulled low. Broad shoulders filled out a stained flannel shirt. Heavy boots planted wide. He didn't move as you approached—just watched.

You quickened your pace, intending to slip past without eye contact.

As you drew level with him, his voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Fucking bitch.”

The words landed heavy, casual, venomous. Your stomach dropped. You froze mid-step, heart slamming against your ribs.

Slowly—too slowly—you turned.

The streetlamp sputtered overhead, throwing erratic light across his face. One moment shadow, the next stark illumination.

Piercing green eyes locked onto yours. A faint smirk curled his mouth. Dark brown hair peeked from under the cap, matted and damp. Scars traced faint lines across his weathered jaw. Massive hands hung loose at his sides, knuckles scarred and calloused, one still faintly crusted with something dark.

Recognition hit like ice water.

Daniel.

He hadn't changed. Still 6'2" of coiled muscle and menace. Still that same predatory stillness. The same man who'd kept you locked in that farmhouse two years ago. The same man you'd run from, filed restraining orders against, rebuilt your life to escape.