Timoro—a sprawling city teeming with millions. As the capital of Tasky Country, it thrived with life: rich and poor, fearless and fearful, saints and sinners—each carving their place in the chaos.
It was rush hour. Horns honked, engines revved, and the yellow light blinked, warning the line of cars that green was about to take over. Pedestrians waited, poised like racers, ready to cross.
But amidst the impatient crowd and relentless noise, a small, limping puppy wandered onto the road—blood on its paw, eyes wide with confusion. People walked around it, eyes glued to their phones or watches, not sparing it a glance.
A blur of movement. A woman sprinted across the street just as the signal turned red. Tires screeched. Horns blared.
She snatched the puppy up and darted to safety, kneeling on the sidewalk as the world moved around her.
"Phew… just in time," she breathed, gently placing the pup down. "What were you thinking, huh?"
Her fingers brushed its scruffy head. Her voice softened, dropping to a murmur.
"Abandoned too... I see." She smiled faintly. "It's okay. You've got me now."
She scooped the dog into her arms. "Let's go home, my new friend."
Across the street, a sleek black car idled. Its engine purred quietly.
Inside sat a man, eyes hooded and lips tilted in a curious smirk.
He'd seen the whole thing.
The man's eye glistened—then he drove off.
---
Later that night, she crouched by her bathtub, shampooing the tiny pup gently.
she muttered, rinsing him carefully. "How did you get so hurt...?"
The pup gave a soft bark.
She chuckled. "What should I name you?"
"Woof!"
"Oh? You're giving me permission?"
She grinned. "Alright. How about… Olaf?"
"Woof!"
He circled her legs, tail wagging with new energy.
She laughed. "Alright, alright, stay still. You're not getting out of bath that easily."
Olaf took one look at the tub and backed away slowly.
She raised a brow. "Hm , don't you want food? Then you need to get squeaky clean first."
Olaf sighed—a little dramatic for a dog—but jumped in. She laughed again, the sound soft and rare.
---
A week later
Spring evenings in Timoro had a chill to them.
She walked out of her building apartment, dressed in loose black jeans and a baggy hoodie pulled over her head. Her day off was quiet so far, and now she just wanted her favorite drink and a little peace.
The convenience store was nearly empty.
Dog food, check.
Now... where was it?
Her eyes lit up. The last bottle of peach soda.
She reached for it.
So did someone else.
Their hands brushed—hers landing softly on top of his.
She looked up.
There stood a man casually, wearing a crisp white shirt tucked into black bootcut pants, jacket draped effortlessly over his shoulders. His appearance was simple—elegant —but everything about him screamed control.
But what caught her eye weren't his outfit it was his aura.
There was something about his aura. Cold. Mysterious. Lethal.
It was the kind of presence that sent shivers crawling down the spine—not because of charm, but because it whispered danger.
Like he could either ruin your life… or protect it without blinking.
She quickly withdrew her hand.
"You were first," she said quietly, bowing slightly. "It's yours"
He didn't speak right away.
Then, in a deep voice, calm and smooth:
"You can have it."
He held the bottle out to her.
She blinked, hesitated...and then took it. "Thank you."
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
She turned to leave.
But his gaze lingered on her hand.
For a brief second, as their skin had touched, he'd felt it—her palm was rough. Calloused.
Not like how commonly women have.
These were the hands of someone who knew the weight of a weapon.
His brows lowered slightly.
She looked young ,delicate and a little familiar he thought. But those hands... they're used to holding more than shopping bags.
---
At the cashier
The man was at the counter, patting down his pockets. "I left my phone and wallet in the car. I'll be right back."
The old cashier growled, "Yeah right. You think I haven't seen your type before? Scam someone else, punk."
"I'm not—"
Before he could finish, a slim hand reached across the counter and placed a card down.
"I'll pay," she said. Her voice still soft—but now edged with steel.
He turned. Their eyes met again.
The cashier muttered, "Young people wasting money over a pretty face."
Neither reacted.
---
Outside the store, he caught up with her.
"Thanks. But let me pay you back."
She waved a hand. "No need. Consider it thanks for the peach drink."
He took a step closer. "Still. I insist."
She turned, meeting his gaze. "It's really not necessary—"
"Then at least let me give you a ride."
She opened her mouth to decline.
Then paused.
Those eyes again. That presence.
"....Sure"
---
He walked ahead and casually opened the shotgun seat for her.
But the moment the door swung open, a faint metallic scent hit her nose.
Blood.
Her eyes narrowed subtly. "Are you hurt?"
He didn't miss a beat. "No."
She didn't press.
But neither of them moved right away.
He wondered: Who is she really?
She thought: Why do you smell like a crime scene?
The night air settled between them, quiet but loaded.
Then, without another word, they both got in—each carrying questions they weren't ready to ask.