A Dangerous Encounter
1183 Words
Chapter 1: A Dangerous Encounter
Ariella had never thought of herself as brave. Walking home from work was usually routine. Same streets. Same corner store with the flickering sign that buzzed louder when it was about to go out. Same shortcut that shaved five minutes off her commute.
She liked predictability. It made her feel steady, which mattered when she spent her days restoring old books that fell apart if handled wrong. One careless touch and history turned to dust.
Tonight, the city felt off.
The air smelled wrong. Damp concrete mixed with rotting garbage. Old rain that never fully dried. The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting uneven pools of light that left too much in shadow. Ariella adjusted the strap of her bag and kept walking, heels tapping faster than usual.
She told herself she was tired. That was all.
Then a sound cut through the night.
A shout. Sharp. Angry.
She stopped without meaning to. Another sound followed. A scuffle. Something heavy hitting brick.
Her heart jumped into her throat.
The alley was there, narrow and half-hidden between two buildings. She never used it. During the day it smelled like trash and stale beer. At night it felt like a mistake waiting to happen. She should have kept walking. Should have pretended she heard nothing.
Instead, she stepped closer.
Curiosity had always been her flaw. It was how she stayed late at work. How she opened one more crate. How she touched fragile things without gloves because she wanted to feel their history.
She leaned just enough to see.
Three men stood in a loose circle. A fourth knelt in the center with his hands raised. His jacket was torn at the shoulder. His voice shook as he begged. Not loudly. Desperately.
Ariella’s stomach dropped.
This was not a misunderstanding. This was not something she could explain away later.
One of the men lifted a gun.
Time fractured.
Her hands went slick with sweat. Her legs locked. She knew she should move. She did not. Her chest tightened as if the air itself had thickened.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
A gunshot would echo. She had never heard one in real life, but it would be loud. Final.
Instead, there was a scuffle.
An attacker slammed into the alley wall. A sharp grunt. The sound of fists connecting with flesh. Someone cursed. Another body hit the ground hard.
Ariella opened her eyes just as a hand closed around her arm.
She gasped.
The grip was firm but controlled. Not frantic. Not cruel. She was pulled back fast and pressed behind a dumpster that smelled like sour milk and rust. Cold metal dug into her spine.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The voice was low and steady. No wasted words. No panic.
She looked up.
He was close enough that details registered before she could stop them. A faint scent of smoke and something clean beneath it. His jaw rough with stubble. His eyes sharp and alert, barely blinking as they assessed her.
When he said it again, quieter, “You don’t belong here,” his gaze dropped briefly to her hands.
To the faint smear of binding glue on her thumb. To the worn leather strap of her work bag. Something in his expression shifted. Not softness. Recognition.
Then it was gone.
“I didn’t see anything,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I was just walking.”
“Move when I tell you,” he said.
Not a suggestion.
He glanced past her shoulder. His body shifted, already preparing. Ariella barely had time to register the change before he stepped away.
She stayed where she was.
This time, she didn’t look away.
He moved with efficiency, not flair. A strike to the throat. A twist of the wrist. The gun clattered to the pavement with a sharp metallic ring. One man tried to run. He didn’t get far.
Another broke and fled.
The man who had been begging scrambled to his feet and disappeared down the far end of the alley without looking back.
A brief silence followed.
Then footsteps retreating. Fast.
It was over.
Too fast.
Her knees gave out when the adrenaline finally caught up. She slid down until she was sitting on the cold pavement, breath coming in shallow pulls. Her ears rang. The alley smelled sharper now. Metal. Sweat. Fear.
He returned and crouched in front of her.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did.
“Are you bleeding?”
She checked herself with shaking hands. No blood. Just scraped skin and trembling fingers. “No.”
“Good.” He scanned the alley once more before focusing on her again. “You need to go.”
“I saw everything,” she said. The words slipped out before she could stop them. “I don’t even know what I saw, but I saw it.”
“That’s why you leave.”
He held out his hand.
She hesitated. Long enough to feel foolish. Then she took it.
His grip was solid. Grounding. He pulled her up like she weighed nothing.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “Wrong place. Right timing.”
“Why did you help me?” she asked.
This time, his mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile.
“Because you froze,” he said. “And because you don’t belong here.”
The words landed harder than she expected.
She nodded. “I’m going.”
“Good.”
She turned away. Forced her legs to move. She did not look back.
Only when she reached the brighter street did she realize her hands were still shaking.
At home, she locked the door and leaned against it, chest rising and falling too fast. The familiar smell of paper and binding glue wrapped around her. It grounded her in a way nothing else did.
She crossed the room and paused beside her worktable where a half-restored book lay open. Its spine was cracked. Fragile. Waiting.
She sat on the couch instead and pressed her palms to her eyes.
Only then did her mind replay it.
Not his face.
His voice.
The way he assessed the situation without hesitation. The certainty in his movements. The fact that he had decided what needed to be done and done it.
That was what lingered. Not romance. Not attraction.
Competence.
And the unsettling awareness that someone like him had noticed someone like her.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
Tomorrow. Don’t run.
Ariella stared at the screen as her pulse kicked up again.
Her first instinct was anger. Her second was fear. The third was worse. A sharp awareness that part of her already knew who it was.
She locked her phone and set it face down on the table.
Then she turned it back over and stared at the message until the screen went dark.
Part of her wanted to type back.
To demand answers. To say no. To draw a line and pretend she still had control over where this ended.
She didn’t.
Tomorrow meant he knew where to find her.
- Writer
