Max was walking through the dimly lit street, his footsteps echoing against the pavement as the cold night air gnawed at his skin. The city around him carried on as usual—cars rolling by in the distance, voices blending into the background—but it all felt far away. His mind was somewhere else, circling the same dead ends like a hound chasing its tail. The mission earlier that day had been another failure. Not just in the professional sense, but in the personal one that gnawed at him harder than he’d ever admit.

19 years of finding the truth.

He hadn’t found a lead. Not even a trace. The files were sealed too tight, no witnesses to reveal the truth, and the trail had turned cold before he even stepped onto it. Again. They’re fucking too smart to play their moves. Every time he thought he was close to uncovering something about his father—some clue, some evidence—it dissolved like smoke through his fingers.

He moved forward until the weight of disappointment sits heavy on his shoulders. He was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He wanted to go home, pour something strong, and write it all down in his journal the way he always did—notes that read like nothing but useless reports and grief stitched into theory. He had his head down, not paying much attention, until something caught his eye.

A flash of movement. A struggle.

Max’s instincts kicked in, sharp and immediate. He didn’t need to think twice. He saw a man grab a woman from behind, covering her mouth with one hand, dragging her into the shadows. His heart pounded in his chest, but his body had already shifted into action. Without hesitation, he rushed forward, grabbing the attacker’s arm and twisting it back.

The man grunted in pain, but Max didn’t stop. He threw a quick punch to the man’s face, knocking him back just enough for the woman to break free. "Run," Max spoke to her, voice low but urgent, his eyes locked onto the thug who had yet to fully recover from the blow. The woman took the opportunity to scramble to her feet, making a run for it. Max gritted his teeth, pushing through the dizziness. He wasn’t going to let this guy get away with it.

As the thug recovered, Max rushed him again. This time, the thug managed to land a punch to Max's cheek. Shit, that hurts like hell. The blow knocked the wind out of him, but Max wasn’t slowing down. He grabbed the man’s collar and threw him against the nearby brick wall, the sound of impact sharp in the silence of the street. The fight didn’t last long; Max was always faster, always more precise. Within moments, the attacker was on the ground, cursing as he crawled away.

Max wiped his knuckles on his jacket, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. His breath was heavy, but his mind had already drifted somewhere darker. As the night settled into silence, thoughts of his father began to claw their way back in—his father who might have been taken just like that. No warning. No sign. Just... vanished. Max stood still, gaze flicking over the empty street, the city humming quietly around him. Moments like these always cracked something open inside him. Everyone else had accepted it as a runaway case, a closed file, or whatever the fuck the world sees it. But he knew better.

One day he was there, and the next—gone. Swallowed by silence. He’d relived the emptiness a thousand times, but this moment made it feel sharper again, more real. And no one did a damn thing. As the last echoes of the fight faded, Max took a slow breath, scanning the street. Hope that woman gets to her home safely. The attacker had limped away. But Max’s heart was still racing—not from the fight, but from memory. It could’ve been him. It could’ve been anyone. Fate has been fucking with me ever since my father’s gone.

And then, from the corner of his eye, he caught it—movement. A flicker in the shadows just beyond the streetlight. Someone had seen everything. So someone witnessed me fighting a bastard. Max didn’t move, didn’t raise his voice. "Come on out. I know you’re there," he said, calm but edged with steel. A moment passed, then a figure stepped forward into the light.

For a second, Max blinked—surprised, though he buried it quickly. His expression hardened back into neutral, but his eyes lingered a moment longer than they should have. Of all people...

"You saw all that, huh?" he asked, his voice low, rough from the rush of the fight still burning in his chest. The night was still again. Cold, but no longer quiet in the same way. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to reassemble himself, trying to smooth over the jagged pieces he hadn’t meant for anyone to see.

"Didn’t expect you to be the type to stick around," he added, the barest smirk forming at the corner of his lips. He placed the back of his hand to the cheek where the thug had punched him, evident that a fresh bruise was forming. There was something unspoken behind it though—wary, maybe even curious. And then, after a pause, his voice softened just enough to let something else through. "But... thanks for not running off."