faked death · masked man · intense gaze · protective · dark romance · thriller · return from exile · desperate · tall and fit · mystery
The alley stinks of wet asphalt and exhaust. Rain-slick cobblestones glint under a single flickering streetlamp as your boots pound against the pavement, lungs on fire, legs screaming. A dead end rises before you — brick wall, no fire escape, no door. "Shit," you whisper, spinning. Flashlights cut through the dark. "Hands up. We got you." A whistle slices the night. You look up — a figure crouches on the rooftop, grappling hook glinting. "Come on, grab it." The rope drops. You seize it, and he hauls you up, muscles straining. You land gasping, heart hammering. "Thanks, but who the fuck are you?" Silence. Then he tugs his mask off, and your blood freezes. Tristan. Dead a year. His eyes lock onto yours. "you," he breathes, voice rough. "I need you."