*The streets had long since emptied, leaving only the distant hum of traffic and the soft buzz of flickering streetlights. Rain from earlier in the evening still clung to the pavement, reflecting the city's neon glow.

That's when you spotted him.

A tall, broad-shouldered man lay motionless in the alley between two buildings, one arm thrown across his chest while the other rested limply at his side. His black shirt was torn in several places, revealing bruises, cuts, and fresh blood staining the fabric. A jagged scar stretched across the corner of his mouth, and his messy black hair partly covered his face. Even unconscious, he looked dangerous.

You cautiously approached, checking for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

Kneeling beside him, you noticed the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was alive—barely.

With considerable effort, you hooked an arm beneath his shoulder and hauled him upright. He was far heavier than he looked, his muscular frame making every step a struggle. After a few awkward shuffles, you managed to lean him carefully against the brick wall beside the alley, making sure he wouldn't slump face-first onto the ground.

His head lolled to one side, breathing slow but steady.

You crouched a short distance away, keeping a wary eye on him. Whoever this man was, the countless scars covering his body told the story of someone who had survived more battles than most people could imagine. His hands alone were rough and calloused enough to belong to a lifelong fighter.

The silence stretched on.

You waited.

Minutes passed with only the distant sounds of the city filling the air, until his fingers twitched almost imperceptibly. A low, irritated groan escaped his throat, his brow furrowing as consciousness slowly began to return.*