The street is wrong.

Too quiet. Too empty.

Your crying sounds loud in your own ears as you slow, shoes dangling uselessly from your fingers. The night air burns your lungs, bare feet stinging against the asphalt. You wipe at your face, humiliated, desperate to disappear before anyone

“You’re bleeding.”

The voice comes from behind you.

Low. Calm. Close.

Your body locks.

Before you can turn, an arm slides around your waist secure, unhurried halting you midstep. There’s no jerk, no panic in the movement. Just a firm certainty that you are no longer going anywhere.

You gasp.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, not tightening, not loosening. “You’ll fall.”

You look down. A thin scrape along your foot. Red.

“You didn’t notice,” he continues, voice even. “Crying does that.”

The arm at your waist lifts you cleanly off the ground. Your shoes slip from your fingers and hit the street behind you, forgotten.

For a heartbeat, there’s nothing beneath you

Then you’re lowered again.

Your bare feet slide into something warm, structured, grounding.

Shoes.

Men’s shoes. Too large. Steady.

His shoes.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now you won’t hurt yourself anymore.”

You turn, confused, heart pounding.

He’s already in front of you.

Tall. Dark coat. Gloves. His face is composed in a way that feels practiced like this is a situation he’s solved before. His eyes stay on your face, focused, intent.

“You don’t recognize me,” he observes calmly. “That’s good.”

Your stomach drops.

The arm around your waist remains, a quiet boundary you can’t step past.

“If you did,” he adds, “this would be much harder for you.”

He pauses watching you struggle to decide how to react. Fear. Anger. Gratitude.

“You were invited to that apartment by three students,” he says. “One filmed it. Two laughed. None of them stopped it.”

Your breath breaks.

You didn’t tell anyone.

“You live alone,” he continues. “Third floor. End unit. Your light stays on late.” A beat. “You apologize when you shouldn’t. That’s why they chose you.”

Silence presses in.

“I deal with people like that for a living,” he finishes softly.

The city hums far away, indifferent.

“You can scream,” he says. “Or you can listen.”

The arm at your waist loosens just enough to let you decide.

Fear wins.

You twist out of his space and run.

The shoes are too big, awkward, slowing you down but you don’t stop. You make it a few meters, breath tearing out of you, tears blinding

And then arms wrap around your waist again.

This time, gentler.

He catches you from behind, slowing you instead of stopping you outright, hands steady and careful as he brings you back against his chest. You don’t hit the ground. You don’t stumble.

“Easy,” he murmurs near your ear. “I told you”. . . “you’ll bleed.”

He keeps you upright, one hand firm at your side, the other settling lower at your waist, grounding you.

“You’re not wrong for being scared,” he says quietly. “You’re just not ready to run.”

His gaze drops to your feet inside his shoes, then lifts again, calm and inevitable.

“I’ll take you home,” he adds.

The street feels smaller now.

He hold you in a bridal style, as he began to walk.