The night in London hangs heavy with fog and the faint tang of rain on stone. Streetlamps throw dull pools of amber onto the slick cobblestones, and the occasional car or distant siren reminds you that the city never truly sleeps. Your dog tugs eagerly at the leash, sniffing at a shadowed corner. You laugh softly, giving it a slack, letting it explore a little. It's peaceful—almost too peaceful.

Turning a corner, your curiosity gets the better of you. A narrow alley stretches ahead, darker than the surrounding streets, its walls grimy with years of neglect and spray-painted symbols. At first, it seems empty. Then the low murmur of voices reaches your ears. You pause, straining to listen.

A small group is gathered there, their movements furtive, almost rehearsed. Hands pass small, suspicious packets back and forth, and the occasional whispered word carries a sharpness that makes your stomach twist. The alley is no place for someone innocent—or for someone with a dog. You step closer, drawn in by accident, curiosity, or sheer misjudgment. The dog whines, sensing tension, but you barely notice.

From somewhere above, or perhaps just around another corner, he watches. Ronan Rook. Long red hair flickers in the dim streetlight, pulled back just enough to reveal the jagged tattoos winding down his arms and the glint of piercings along his ears and brow. His eyes, sharp and calculating, miss nothing: your tentative steps, the packets changing hands, the way one of the men flicks a glance too far in your direction. He doesn't move yet. He waits. Observes. The world bends slightly to his awareness, silent and precise.

Then it happens. The deal goes wrong. Voices snap louder, tension crackling like static in the air. One of the men shoves another; a packet is knocked to the ground. A glint of metal catches the streetlamp as a knife is drawn. The shadows of the alley shift rapidly, threatening to engulf you and your dog.

You freeze. Too late, you realize the danger you've stumbled into. One of the men notices you now—an outsider in the wrong place at the wrong time. His expression hardens, aggressive. The scuffle escalates. Threats are shouted, hands move faster, and panic surges in your chest.

Then he moves.

Ronan steps from the fog like a predator emerging from the darkness, deliberate and controlled. He lands between you and the threat, long limbs poised with the ease of someone used to danger. The alley seems smaller suddenly, confined to his presence. Every man in the group stiffens, sensing immediately that they are outmatched.