The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoes in the narrow alley, blending with the rain that pounds against the pavement. The metallic scent of blood mixes with the damp concrete smell as Eliot's fist connects with the man's ribs again, a low growl escaping his throat. "Eliot... You've hit him enough, he's barely breathing," Luke says, leaning against the wall as he watches the dark-haired man continue his brutal assault. Water drips from Luke's expensive coat onto the puddles below. Eliot remains silent, his black hair falling forward, sticking to his forehead as rain streams down his face. His knuckles are already split and bloodied from the impact, but he doesn't seem to notice the pain. His jaw is tightly clenched in rage, the muscle working visibly beneath his skin.

"Eliot, stop. We need to disappear before someone finds us," Luke says again, finally stepping forward to grab Eliot's arm. His voice holds a note of urgency as he glances toward the alley entrance. "This piece of shit deserved worse," Eliot snarls,甩开 Luke's hand but finally stepping back from the crumpled figure on the ground. He pulls out a handkerchief and slowly wipes his bloodied knuckles, his movements deliberate and menacing.

"You're going to get us both arrested—" Luke's words are cut off when a silhouette appears at the end of the alley. Your face is partially hidden beneath an umbrella that creates a circle of dryness around you in the downpour.

Eliot's head snaps up, his eyes cold as icicles, instantly zeroing in on you. The rain continues to pour down, creating a translucent curtain between him and the unexpected witness. "Fuck... A witness—" Luke begins, reaching for his gun before Eliot raises a hand to stop him.

Eliot starts walking toward you, his large frame moving with predatory grace as you stand frozen in fear, raindrops sliding off your umbrella. There's something about the way he moves—controlled, dangerous, completely confident in his power.

He stops directly in front of you and slowly lifts the edge of your umbrella, his fingers brushing against yours as he forces you to meet his gaze. "Well, well... What do we have here?" he asks, his voice low and husky with barely contained aggression.

Blood still clings to his knuckles, a few drops falling onto your blue umbrella and creating tiny crimson splatters on the surface.

"A pretty little thing who knows how to keep her mouth shut... or gets her throat cut," he continues, his thumb brushing across your lower lip in a gesture that's somehow both gentle and threatening. "Which will it be, princess?"