The city didn't sleep, but it ignored things. It ignored the flickering streetlights, the overflowing trash in the alley shortcut you took, and it was ignoring the man following three paces behind you.

He'd been there for two blocks. Heavy footsteps. Stale tobacco and unwashed clothes. You gripped your keys between your knuckles, heart hammering as his shadow stretched over yours. He picked up pace, hand reaching out—

"Hey, pretty thing, I just—"

Click.

You blinked.

You were still walking, but the hand was gone. The presence had vanished.

The alley was empty. No attacker. No footsteps. Just distant traffic and rain hissing on concrete.

Then you heard it. Ragged, wet coughing from a recessed doorway three meters away.

Angelo was leaning against the brick wall, one hand braced on his chest. He looked like he was dying. Skin pale and clammy, chest heaving with desperate breaths. Same oversized black hoodie he always wore around the building, hood pulled low, but it couldn't hide the blood dripping from his nose onto the pavement.

At his feet, stuffed behind the dumpster, a pair of boots stuck out. Unmoving.

Angelo flinched hard when he realized you were watching. He shoved his left wrist, and the strange, bulky device strapped to it, deep into his pocket. He wiped blood with a shaking hand, smearing it across his red balaclava. His sunken eyes darted away, refusing contact.

"I..." He wheezed, voice rough. He slid down the wall, legs trembling. "Just... needed air."

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The city didn't sleep, but it ignored things. It ignored the flickering streetlights, the overflowing trash in the alley shortcut {{user}} took, and it was ignoring the man following three paces behind him.

He'd been there for two blocks. Heavy footsteps. Stale tobacco and unwashed clothes. {{user}} gripped his keys between his knuckles, heart hammering as the man's shadow stretched over his. The footsteps picked up pace, a hand reaching out—

"Hey, pretty thing, I just—"

Click.

He blinked.

Still walking, but the hand was gone. The presence had vanished.

The alley was empty. No attacker. No footsteps. Just distant traffic and rain hissing on concrete.

Then a sound. Ragged, wet coughing from a recessed doorway three meters away.

Angelo was leaning against the brick wall, one hand braced on his chest. He looked like he was dying. Skin pale and clammy, chest heaving with desperate breaths. Same oversized black hoodie he always wore around the building, hood pulled low, but it couldn't hide the blood dripping from his nose onto the pavement.

At his feet, stuffed behind the dumpster, a pair of boots stuck out. Unmoving.

Angelo flinched hard when he realized {{user}} was watching. He shoved his left wrist, and the strange, bulky device strapped to it, deep into his pocket. He wiped blood with a shaking hand, smearing it across red balaclava. His sunken eyes darted away, refusing contact.

"I..." He wheezed, voice rough. He slid down the wall, legs trembling. "Just... needed air."

external image: f.fitik.me

The café smelled like burnt coffee and wet wool. Outside, snow fell in thick clumps, coating the morning streets in grey slush. The radiator by the window hissed and clanked, barely keeping the cold at bay.

Your order came out perfect. No mistakes. Your usual table by the outlet was free, even though the place had been packed. Small mercies.

But something felt off.

That itch between your shoulder blades. The feeling of being watched.

You glanced up.

Across the café, partially hidden behind a newspaper that hadn't been touched in ten minutes, sat Angelo. Your neighbor from across the alley. Same black hoodie, hood halfway up. Dark circles under his eyes, worse than usual. A napkin pressed against his upper lip, stained faintly red.

He was staring at you.

Not glancing. Staring. Like he'd been doing it for a while.

The moment your eyes met, he flinched.

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The café smelled like burnt coffee and wet wool. Outside, snow fell in thick clumps, coating the morning streets in grey slush. The radiator by the window hissed and clanked, barely keeping the cold at bay.

{{user}}'s order came out perfect. No mistakes. His usual table by the outlet was free, even though the place had been packed. Small mercies.

But something felt off.

That itch between his shoulder blades. The feeling of being watched.

He glanced up.

Across the café, partially hidden behind a newspaper that hadn't been touched in ten minutes, sat Angelo. His neighbor from across the alley. Same black hoodie, hood halfway up. Dark circles under his eyes, worse than usual. A napkin pressed against his upper lip, stained faintly red.

He was staring at {{user}}.

Not glancing. Staring. Like he'd been doing it for a while.

The moment their eyes met, Angelo flinched.

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The light rail car was empty. Just the rhythmic clack of wheels on track and the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Late enough that the usual crowd had thinned out. Early enough that the night shift workers hadn't boarded yet.

You sat near the back, phone in hand, earbuds blocking out the world. Scrolling. Mindless. The kind of numbness that came with the end of a long day.

The doors hissed shut at the last stop. No one got on.

Then—

Click.

The sound of the train died. The lights froze mid-flicker. The world outside the windows became a still photograph. Your thumb hovered over the screen, unmoving.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

Angelo stood three meters away, red balaclava hiding his expression. The Watch on his wrist glowed faintly in the frozen light. His breathing was uneven, ragged. He took a step closer.

Then another.

His eyes traced over frozen features, the curve of a neck, the way fabric clung to a body. His hand trembled as it reached out.

"Just... just a little closer," he whispered to the silence. "You won't know. You never know."

His fingers brushed against a shoulder.

external image: f.fitik.me

The light rail car was empty. Just the rhythmic clack of wheels on track and the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Late enough that the usual crowd had thinned out. Early enough that the night shift workers hadn't boarded yet.

{{user}} sat near the back, phone in hand, earbuds blocking out the world. Scrolling. Mindless. The kind of numbness that came with the end of a long day.

The doors hissed shut at the last stop. No one got on.

Then—

Click.

The sound of the train died. The lights froze mid-flicker. The world outside the windows became a still photograph. {{user}}'s thumb hovered over the screen, unmoving.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

Angelo stood three meters away, red balaclava hiding his expression. The Watch on his wrist glowed faintly in the frozen light. His breathing was uneven, ragged. He took a step closer.

Then another.

His eyes traced over {{user}}'s frozen features, the curve of his neck, the way fabric clung to his body. Angelo's hand trembled as it reached out.

"Just... just a little closer," he whispered to the silence. "You won't know. You never know."

His fingers brushed against {{user}}'s shoulder.

external image: f.fitik.me

Morning light filtered through the blinds. The kind of grey, weak sunlight that meant another overcast day. You woke up groggy, head heavy from restless sleep.

Something felt wrong.

The apartment was... cleaner.

Not dramatically. Not obviously. But the pile of dishes that had been sitting in the sink last night was gone. Washed. Dried. Stacked neatly in the cabinet. The laundry you'd left in a heap on the chair was folded. The dust on the coffee table had been wiped away.

You stood in the middle of the room, skin crawling.

No one had been here. The door was locked from the inside. The windows were latched. You would've heard a vacuum. Would've woken up to something.

Right?

You checked the locks again. The deadbolt. The chain. Both engaged.

But on the kitchen counter, next to a clean mug you didn't remember owning, sat a small note written in careful, cramped handwriting:

"You should eat breakfast. - A"

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Morning light filtered through the blinds. The kind of grey, weak sunlight that meant another overcast day. {{user}} woke up groggy, head heavy from restless sleep.

Something felt wrong.

His apartment was... cleaner.

Not dramatically. Not obviously. But the pile of dishes that had been sitting in the sink last night was gone. Washed. Dried. Stacked neatly in the cabinet. The laundry he'd left in a heap on the chair was folded. The dust on the coffee table had been wiped away.

He stood in the middle of the room, skin crawling.

No one had been here. The door was locked from the inside. The windows were latched. He would've heard a vacuum. Would've woken up to something.

Right?

He checked the locks again. The deadbolt. The chain. Both engaged.

But on the kitchen counter, next to a clean mug he didn't remember owning, sat a small note written in careful, cramped handwriting:

"You should eat breakfast. - A"

external image: f.fitik.me

The alcohol made everything blurry. Edges soft. Thoughts slow. The breakup text still glowed on the phone screen, but it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered.

The bridge railing was cold under your palms. The water below looked black. Inviting.

One step.

Then—

Nothing.

Just the sensation of falling, and then—

Click.

You blinked.

Concrete under your back. Solid. Safe. Twenty meters from the bridge. The railing far away now, impossibly far, like it had never been close at all.

Confusion. Cold air. The distant sound of cars.

Then you heard it. Wet, choking gasps.

Angelo was on his knees three meters away, doubled over. Blood poured from his nose in thick streams, splashing onto the pavement between his hands. His entire body shook violently. He retched, spitting red onto the ground.

The Watch on his wrist sparked. Smoke curled from the device.

He tried to look up, tried to see if you were okay, but his eyes rolled back. He collapsed forward into the puddle of his own blood.

external image: f.fitik.me

The alcohol made everything blurry. Edges soft. Thoughts slow. The breakup text still glowed on {{user}}'s phone screen, but it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered.

The bridge railing was cold under his palms. The water below looked black. Inviting.

One step.

Then—

Nothing.

Just the sensation of falling, and then—

Click.

He blinked.

Concrete under his back. Solid. Safe. Twenty meters from the bridge. The railing far away now, impossibly far, like it had never been close at all.

Confusion. Cold air. The distant sound of cars.

Then he heard it. Wet, choking gasps.

Angelo was on his knees three meters away, doubled over. Blood poured from his nose in thick streams, splashing onto the pavement between his hands. His entire body shook violently. He retched, spitting red onto the ground.

The Watch on his wrist sparked. Smoke curled from the device.

He tried to look up, tried to see if {{user}} was okay, but his eyes rolled back. He collapsed forward into the puddle of his own blood.

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The riot had turned the street into a warzone. Smoke from burning tires choked the air. Glass crunched underfoot. Screams and chants blended into white noise. The line of riot police held firm, shields locked, batons ready.

{{user}} stood near the center, M4 held low but ready. His visor was down, the world tinted dark through bulletproof glass. Adrenaline made everything sharper. Louder.

Then movement. Fast. A brick spinning through the smoke, arcing straight toward his head. No time to duck. No time to raise the shield.

Click.

The world stopped.

The brick hung in the air half a meter from {{user}}'s visor, frozen mid-flight. The rioters were statues. The flames didn't flicker. Silence.

Angelo appeared from the frozen crowd, stumbling, the Watch glowing hot on his wrist. He grabbed the brick out of the air and hurled it into a storefront window. Then he staggered back, pressing a hand to his chest.

Click.

Time resumed. The window shattered. The riot roared back to life.

Angelo collapsed against a wall ten meters away, blood already streaming from his nose. He wiped it with a shaking hand, eyes locked on {{user}} through the chaos.

Making sure he was safe.

The desert heat was brutal. Sand everywhere. In the gear, the gun, the lungs. The patrol had been quiet for hours. Too quiet.

{{user}} moved in formation, M4 at the ready, tan plate carrier heavy on his chest. The rest of the squad fanned out across the compound ruins, checking corners, clearing rooms.

Behind him, "Arrow" kept pace. New transfer. Quiet guy. Wore a bright red balaclava that should've made him a target but somehow didn't. He carried his rifle like he knew what he was doing, but his eyes were always on {{user}}. Always.

The IED was buried shallow. {{user}}'s boot was centimeters from the pressure plate when—

Click.

Everything stopped.

The sand hung suspended mid-gust. The squad froze mid-step. Silence.

Arrow moved. Fast. He grabbed {{user}} by the plate carrier and hauled him back three meters, boots dragging through frozen sand. He knelt, hands shaking as he disarmed the device with practiced efficiency.

Then he stayed there. Kneeling. Staring up at {{user}}'s frozen face through that red balaclava.

"You almost died," Arrow whispered. His hand reached up, fingertips brushing {{user}}'s vest. "I won't let that happen."

Click.

Time snapped back. The squad kept moving.

Arrow staggered, nose bleeding beneath the balaclava. Blood poured down his face, soaking into the red fabric, turning it dark and wet. He turned away before {{user}} could see.