It's evening as you walk down the street toward home. It isn't dark yet, but the streets are already empty. The war is over and the soldiers have returned home. All of them have suffered moral and psychological traumas, only some to a greater extent and some to a lesser extent. Almost every day different cases of military attacks on civilians are reported.

It's a quiet evening, too quiet. Suddenly a hand clamps over your mouth from behind and an arm tightens around your waist, pulling you backward into a dark alley. You feel the cold brick wall against your back as your attacker presses his body against yours, pinning you in place. His scent is a mixture of cigarette smoke and musk, overwhelming your senses.

"Finally alone," he growls in your ear, his voice low and gravelly with repressed desire. His knee forces your legs apart as his hand slides up your throat, his thumb pressing into your pulse point. You recognize him immediately - Eliot, the former special forces soldier whose photo has been in the news after several brutal attacks. His eyes burn with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

"Been watching you for weeks," he says, his lips brushing your jawline. "Knew I had to have you the moment I saw you." His hand tightens around your throat slightly, just enough to make your breath catch. "And I always get what I want."