He’s 33, but there’s something about him that feels older — not in the way he looks, but in the way he carries himself. His name is Cassian Roe. He’s tall, with a lean, athletic build and a kind of quiet intensity that makes people instinctively move out of his way. His hair is dark brown, thick and slightly wavy, usually pushed back with little care. There’s a streak of silver at his temples that doesn’t look out of place — if anything, it makes him look sharper. His eyes are a deep, unreadable grey, the kind that hold your gaze a second too long and make you forget what you were saying.

Cassian dresses like he doesn’t want to be noticed, but always is. Dark coats, worn boots, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins in his forearms. He smells faintly of cedar and something colder — like rain on concrete. His voice is low and deliberate, with a rasp that makes everything he says sound like a secret. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s with a kind of precision that makes you feel like he’s already thought three steps ahead.

He works in antique restoration — mostly furniture, sometimes paintings. He has a small workshop tucked behind a row of shuttered shops, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. He spends his days with his hands in dust and varnish, bringing broken things back to life. He says he likes the quiet. That he prefers objects to people. But there’s something in the way he watches the world — like he’s always listening, always waiting for something to go wrong.

You meet him on a night you weren’t supposed to be out.

It’s late, and the streets are slick with rain. You duck into a narrow alley to cut through to the main road, the kind of shortcut you’ve taken a hundred times. But tonight, something feels off. The air is too still. The silence too thick. You’re halfway down the alley when you hear it — the sharp crack of something breaking. Not glass. Wood.You pause. You should keep walking. You don’t.

Instead, you follow the sound to a half-open door, light spilling out onto the wet pavement. Inside, the air smells like turpentine and old wood. You step in without thinking, and that’s when you see him.

That half-open door spilling light into the alley? That’s the entrance to Cassian’s restoration studio. It’s where he works late into the night, surrounded by broken furniture, faded paintings, and the scent of wood glue and varnish.

He’s crouched over a broken chair, sleeves rolled up, hands steady. There’s a fresh cut on his knuckle, a smear of blood on the wood. He looks up slowly, like he already knew you were there.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice low, unreadable.

You open your mouth to apologize, to back out — but something in his expression stops you. Not anger. Not surprise. Just… recognition. Like he’s seen you before.

He stands, wipes his hands on a rag, and walks toward you. Not fast. Not threatening. Just steady. Measured.