The rain had been falling for hours—sharp, needle-thin drops that stung my skin every time I moved. My phone kept buzzing in my pocket, probably my ex trying to "explain" why her tongue was down someone else's throat this afternoon, but I didn't care enough to check.
I just wanted to go home, crawl under a blanket, and forget the world existed.
Then a hand—small, ice-cold, and trembling—closed around my wrist.
I jerked back.
A child stood there.
A boy, maybe six.
Soaked to the bone.
Wide eyes, too knowing for his age.
A stuffed fox pressed to his chest, its face smeared with something dark—mud or blood, I couldn't tell.
He was staring at me like I was oxygen and he'd been drowning for years.
"...Mama?" he whispered.
I blinked. My brain stalled, confused, offended, and—God, why did his voice sound like a bruise? "Kid… I think you got the wrong person."
He shook his head hard enough that water flew from his hair.
"No. No, you're— you're my parent."
His breath hitched. "Please don't leave me again."
Everything inside me stilled.
Again?
Before I could say anything, he looked behind me—eyes widening—and whispered, terrified:
"Papa's here."
My heart kicked painfully against my ribs.
A figure stepped out of the shadows beneath a flickering streetlamp.
Tall.
Elegant.
Suit soaked through but somehow still looking expensive.
Face carved like marble—beautiful, sharp, indifferent.
Eyes a pale, cold silver, the kind that made you feel seen and flayed in the same breath.
He didn't walk so much as move with frightening stillness, like a predator conserving energy.
When his gaze landed on me, it felt like being struck.
Not attraction.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Deep, breaking, soul-wrenching recognition.
I had never seen him in my life.
The child—Ren, he would later tell me—let go of my wrist only to grab my hand instead, gripping it with both of his tiny ones, as if anchoring himself.
The man's voice was low when he spoke, and it slid beneath my skin like cold water.
"You shouldn't be here."
He wasn't talking to the child.
He was talking to me.
"I— sorry?" My voice cracked embarrassingly. "Do I know you?"
Something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger. Not surprise. Something more dangerous—something like grief.
"No," he said softly. Too softly. "Not anymore."
A shiver crawled down my spine.
I took a step back without meaning to.
Instantly, the man's jaw tightened—as though the very act of me distancing myself was an old wound reopening. The tension was so sharp it felt like I'd touched a tripwire.
The boy tugged my hand desperately.
"Please don't run. Mama—Papa—please don't—"
I crouched automatically, leveling with him. "Hey, hey—listen. I'm not your—"
My voice faltered.
He was crying.
Silently. No sobbing, no hiccups. Just tears spilling in a way no six-year-old should know how to cry.
"I watched you die," he whispered.
"I watched both of you die— and I don't want to do it again."
The world narrowed to a pinpoint.
My tongue felt numb. "What—"
A hand closed around my arm.
The man.
He pulled me up—not harsh, but firm—and the second our skin touched, something snapped through me like electricity. Not metaphorical. Not emotional.
I felt something break free inside my chest, like a memory long buried trying to scream.
His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to warn.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said. There was no inflection, but the words felt like a threat wrapped in exhaustion. "It's not safe for you."
I yanked my arm back. "Safe from what? You two? Listen— I'm not— I don't know you."
"I know," he said.
His voice cracked on that. I heard it.
Barely.
But it cracked.
He looked at me like I was the last light in a collapsing world.
"I know you don't remember."
Remember what?
Before I could ask, he stepped closer, invading my space in a way that should've made me shove him away—but I couldn't move.
He lifted his hand to my cheek. Hesitated. His fingers trembled once, like he was touching a ghost.
Then he stopped himself, curling his hand into a fist at his side.
"I'm not going to lose you again," he breathed.
I stared at him. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to get out.
"I think you're mistaking me for someone. I'm not—"
"You are."
His voice went soft, hoarse.
"You are exactly who I lost."
The rain fell harder around us. The streetlight flickered again, then died completely, leaving only the glow of passing traffic.
For a moment, none of us moved.
The boy clung to me.
The man stared at me like the world was ending.
I didn't know whether to run or scream or faint.
Then footsteps echoed from around the corner.
Fast.
Heavy.
Too many.
The man's posture changed instantly—predatory, lethal. The softness vanished like it never existed.
He grabbed my wrist this time—hard enough to make me gasp.
"Move."
"What? Why—"
"We don't have time."
He pulled me closer.
His voice dipped into something terrifyingly calm.
"They found us."
Us?
Who the hell was "us"?
I looked down.
Ren was shaking violently, his fox crushed against his chest.
"Papa…" he whispered.
The man crouched suddenly, gripping the boy's face with both hands. For the first time, his mask shattered—fear, regret, fury, all twisting across his expression.
"I told you never to run off alone," he said, voice shaking just slightly.
"I told you I'd come for you."
Ren's lips trembled. "I wanted Mama—Papa—" He looked up at me as if begging me to understand something I didn't.
My breath clogged in my throat.
I don't know why, but my hand moved on instinct—maybe pity, maybe confusion, maybe some buried reflex I didn't recognize—and I touched Ren's hair.
He leaned into it like he'd been starved of the gesture for years.
The man froze.
His eyes—God, those eyes—went wide for a fraction of a second. No one else would have noticed, but I did.
It looked like my touch physically hurt him.
The pounding footsteps grew closer.
The man rose to his full height, shoulders squared.
Then he looked at me.
And whatever softness had flickered was gone—swallowed by cold determination.
"You're coming with us," he said.
I jerked back. "Excuse me? No—no, listen— I'm not getting dragged into whatever mess—"
He stepped forward, so close his breath ghosted my jaw.
"You don't have a choice."
Something sharp, forbidden, electric crawled up my spine.
Fear and something else— something I didn't want to name.
"I don't even know who you are," I whispered.
He leaned in.
So close.
Too close.
"You will."
Behind him, shadowy figures turned the corner. Multiple. Armed. Searching.
Ren squeezed my hand so tight it hurt.
"Mama—"
One of the men shouted, "Over there!"
The beautiful stranger's eyes darkened.
And he whispered, almost like a promise:
"I won't let you die again."
His hand grabbed mine.
The world tilted.
Rain. Screams. Running.
And I—
I didn't know if I was being saved
or kidnapped.
Probably both.
Someone grabbed me from behind—
but it wasn't him.