A girl sprinting through a wide, empty street swallowed by shadows. The buildings around her rise like silent judges, all windows dark, no movement, no witnesses. The whole place feels abandoned, like the world forgot to breathe.

Her footsteps echo against the concrete like warning shots.

Her breath is uneven.

Her palms are burning.

And she keeps looking over her shoulder because she knows he's close.

That man behind her?

He isn't some petty thief.

The way he chases her is personal. He wants money.

The girl turns sharply into a side street, hoping to lose him, and the moment she stops, her stomach drops. It isn't a street. It's a dead end.

A flat wall.

No exit.

No escape.

The darkness presses closer, the air feels like it's shrinking around her throat, and she hears his footsteps behind her... slow, determined, like he already knows she's trapped.

Then she notices it.

A single flat with a suspicious door that looks like it hasn't been opened in years.

Her pulse hammers so hard it feels like it's warning her, mocking her even:

Pick your danger.

If she stays, the man catches her.

If she enters the door, she has no idea what she'll run into.

And she hesitates.

That tiny second of panic where her mind fractures:

Should I? Shouldn't I? Will it save me or bury me?

She hates the dark. Even the shadows on her bedroom wall scare her, and here she is... choosing between the dark behind her and the darker inside that door.

For a moment she stands frozen, breath shaking, telling herself she can't go in.

That she'll faint.

That she'll die of fear before anything else touches her.

But the footsteps behind her grow heavier, closer.

So she grabs the handle.

Her fingers tremble.

The metal is cold, like touching a dead thing.

She pushes it open.

Inside... nothing.

Not even the faintest glow.

Just a pit of black, the kind that eats sound and swallows sanity.

Her throat tightens.

She whispers her little prayer, over and over, like it's the last thread keeping her alive.

Then she steps in.

One foot.

Then the other.

She closes the door.

And now she's inside a stranger's flat, drowning in darkness she can't even see through.

Hands shaking.

Heart punching her ribs.

Her own breath sounding too loud.

She reaches out blindly, fingertips brushing the air, searching for... anything. A switch, a wall, a sign she didn't just walk into her own doom.

She steps deeper inside, her palm sliding along the wall until the darkness thins into a faint outline of a lobby.

Everything looks... wrong.

Chairs overturned.

A cracked vase lying like a broken limb on the floor.

A half-open cupboard with clothes spilling out like someone left in a hurry.

Dust floating in the air, disturbed by her presence.

The place doesn't feel abandoned.

It feels interrupted.

She moves carefully, every breath shallow.

Her brain keeps whispering that something is in here with her, but she forces herself forward because she needs a washbasin. She needs to wipe the blood before it dries and stings harder.

She finds it near a crooked mirror, the glass fractured in a pattern that looks like a frozen scream.

She shrugs out of her jacket, exposing the bruises across her arms and collarbone. Her sports undershirt clings to her, damp with sweat and fear. She turns on the tap, the water coughing out in uneven spurts, and she begins to wash the bruises. Her fingers shake, the cold water biting into her skin.

For a moment, she lets herself believe she's alone.

That the flat is silent.

That whatever lived here is gone forever.

Until she hears it.

Footsteps.

Soft, deliberate, coming from deeper inside the flat.

Not the man chasing her.

This is slower.

Measured.

Like someone has been listening to her breathe.

Her entire body tightens, water dripping down her arm as she freezes mid-motion.

And the footsteps get closer.

In the shadowed room, he emerged-a towering figure, impossible to see fully in the darkness. Even then, there was something undeniably dangerous about him.

He reached out, fingers brushing the bruise on her cheek. "Who are you?" His voice was low, rough, cautious.

"She barely gets the words out, voice broken, breath shaking.

"Please... help me."

For a heartbeat he doesn't move.

His thumb stays on her cheek, his eyes still hidden in the dark.

He studies her like he's pulling her apart piece by piece in his mind.

Then-

A knock.

Sharp.

Heavy.

Too familiar.

Her blood runs cold.

The man chasing her has reached the door.

She jerks, instinct screaming to hide behind this stranger or run again. But the tall man in front of her doesn't flinch. Not a muscle. He just tilts his head slightly, like the knock is an annoyance, not a threat.

Another knock.

Louder this time.

"Open the door!" the voice outside shouts.

She presses a hand to her mouth, fear choking her.

His hand moves - not away from her, but to her jaw, steadying it so she looks at him.

"Stop shaking," he murmurs.

Not comforting.

Not gentle.

Just a quiet command, like she's getting on his nerves.

The knocking becomes pounding.

He leans in, his face inches from hers, the scar catching the little light in the room. "I will help you, but there's a condition ".

She froze. She was in danger and couldn't think of negotiating with him, so She agreed "okay.. just please help me".

He leaves her standing by the washbasin, fear strangling her breath, and walks toward the front door without a single sound betraying his steps. She stands there, heart punching her ribs, praying he somehow keeps her hidden.

The pounding stops when his shadow reaches the door.

A voice from outside-rough, impatient, angry-snaps through the silence:

"Someone ran in there! Open the door!"

The tall man unlocks it halfway, the chain still on, only enough space for his voice to slip into the night.

His tone is bored, almost irritated.

"No one came here."

The man outside shoves the door, trying to peek in. "I saw her run this way-she's small, wearing a jacket-"

The stranger inside cuts him off, his voice dropping into something colder.

"Even if a woman stepped inside," he says, "I would've eaten her alive."

A chill runs through her spine.

Even from behind the wall, the threat in his voice feels too real.

The man outside stammers, suddenly unsure. "I... I'm just doing my job. She owes money. A lot."

"That's your problem," the stranger replies. "Not mine. Now get lost."

Silence.

A shuffle of shoes.

Then hurried footsteps moving away-fast, panicked.

He closes the door quietly.

The lock clicks.

And now he turns back toward her.

The room is still dark, but she feels his attention like a hand on her skin.

"You said you'd do anything for help," he says, stepping closer, his outline tall and dangerous.

"Remember that."

He stops just inches away, the scar on his face barely catching the faintest sliver of light.

"Now," he says softly, "tell me why a man is hunting you in streets... and why I shouldn't throw you back outside."

She backs up until her spine hits the cold wall, breath breaking in tiny, sharp pieces. His shadow fills the space in front of her, too close, too controlled, like he's deciding whether she's trouble... or entertainment.

Her words spill out in a panic, fast and messy.

"I-I didn't pay him... I was supposed to-he said he'd kill me if I didn't, I-I didn't think he'd actually chase me... I didn't have the money -please, I just needed somewhere to hide-"

Her voice cracks.

"I didn't mean to enter your flat. I swear. I didn't know where else to go."

He watches her fall apart, silent, expression unreadable in the dark.

He tilts his head a little, like she's noise he's trying to decode.

Then he steps closer, close enough that she can feel his breath ghost over her cheek.

"And why," he asks slowly, "should I help you at all?"

She swallows hard, eyes shining with fear.

"Because... because I have nowhere else to go."

Her voice trembles.

"No one will help me. He'll kill me if I go back out there. I- I'll do anything you ask, just... don't send me out."

For a moment, he says nothing.

Then his fingers slide under her chin, lifting her face to his.

"You're offering anything," he murmurs. "Without even knowing who I am."

"I'm desperate..." she whispers.

"I can see that."

His thumb grazes her lip-barely, just enough to make her freeze.

"And that's exactly why this gets interesting."

He lets her chin go.

"Fine," he says quietly. "Now , it's time to tell my condition, darling."

He pauses.

She stiffens when he says it, like her bones suddenly forget how to hold her up.

"One night," he says, voice low, almost lazy, as if he's discussing weather, not her body. "With me."

The words land like a blade.

Not shouted.

Not demanded.

Just placed in the air with the certainty of someone who knows she has no choices left.

Her pulse knocks against her throat so hard it feels like her body wants to escape itself.

She stares at him, her breath hitching in her chest. "You... you want that?"

He doesn't bother answering.

He closes the distance instead, stepping into her space until her back presses harder against the wall. The faint scent of dust, old smoke, and something sharper clings to him. A warning disguised as a presence.

His hand comes up, bracing beside her head, trapping her without touching her.

"You ran into my flat," he says, eyes cold in the fractured mirror's reflection. "You interrupted my night. You brought trouble to my door. And now you're offering anything."

Her stomach twists.

Her throat burns.

She nods, barely, because she can't trust her voice.

His gaze drags down her face, slow, assessing, like he's measuring the precise point where fear becomes obedience.

"You don't have to pretend to be shocked," he murmurs. "You knew there would be a price."

Her breath trembles.

"I'll do it," she whispers, the words breaking out of her like they've been forced through a narrow crack.

His jaw shifts, unreadable.

"Not now," he says, stepping back just enough for air to return to her lungs. "Not while you're shaking like a loose hinge."

Her knees almost give out when the pressure of his nearness lifts.

He turns away from her, walking toward a small table with an old lamp on it. His voice comes over his shoulder, flat, practical.

"Clean your face. Look human."

She wipes at her cheeks with her trembling fingers.

"And tonight," he adds, "you stay here."

She flinches.

Here.

With him.

With his condition breathing in every inch of this darkness.

But she nods, because what else is there?

He watches her again, arms crossed, expression carved from something solid.

He steps closer, but slower this time, like he's letting her see every inch of danger approaching.

"I want something you can't borrow, steal, or bargain your way out of."

Her heartbeat stutters.

Her breath catches.

He tilts her chin up again with two fingers, forcing her eyes on him.

"Tomorrow morning," he murmurs, almost casual, "your debt to me will be cleared , also to the man you were hiding from."

Her lips part-fear, confusion, surrender tangled in her throat.