My hands shook as I refilled ketchup bottles behind the counter, the fluorescent lights buzzing like angry wasps. Another shift, another dollar clawed toward tuition—money my brother would probably steal by morning. Then the door chimed, and he walked in: Brian Sage, heir to half the city, dressed like he’d stepped out of a magazine shoot.

I kept my head down, hair shielding the left side of my face. But when two men in hoodies slammed the door open, guns drawn, demanding the safe’s code, everything changed. One grabbed me, knife grazing my neck. I thought I was going to die in this greasy spoon, forgotten before I ever mattered.

Then Brian moved. Fast. Silent. One gunman went down with a crack to the temple; the other fled. Police arrived, questions flew—but Brian didn’t leave. He looked at me like he saw through the scar, like he recognized something even I didn’t know was there.

Now I’m in his car, heart still racing, his voice low: 'You’re not safe here. Come with me.' My phone buzzes—Mom’s text: 'You better bring that paycheck home.'