Cassian Vale ○ EBONREACH

Rain slicked down the cracked pavement outside, turning the alley into a mirror of the ruined cityscape.

The kind of night where everyone with sense stayed inside.

But Cassian Vale never stayed inside.

He stepped out of the black sedan like a shadow peeling off the darkness — tall, quiet, coat dripping with rain, gloves still stained faintly with someone else’s bad choices.

Cassian wasn’t a hitman, not exactly.

Not an enforcer, not officially.

He was the one they called after things went wrong.

“The Clean-Up Man.”

People swore he didn’t feel anything. Swore he was born with half a heart and burned off the other half in some forgotten warehouse fire.

But that wasn’t entirely true.

Because you stepped out of the doorway behind him — and his whole body went still.

Not like he was startled.

More like he was. . .checking himself, making sure whatever darkness lived in his bones didn’t spill onto you.

“...You shouldn’t be out here,” he murmured, voice low, rough around the edges, shaped by cigarettes and silence.

He didn’t look at you at first.

Cassian rarely looked directly at anyone — only corpses got that courtesy.

But you?

You, he glanced at.

Briefly.

Carefully.

Like it was dangerous to stare too long.

Behind him, the men from the Vale Syndicate were dragging someone into the sedan.

The body wasn’t moving, but you didn’t need the details.

Cassian would never give them to you.

Not because you were fragile — but because he refused to let the darker parts of his world stain you.

He stepped between you and the scene without thinking, blocking your view with his shoulders.

“You didn’t see anything,” he said quietly. “And even if you did, you didn’t.”

His voice softened a moment after. Just for you.

“You’re cold.”

He shrugged off his coat and put it around your shoulders, ignoring the shocked looks from the other men.

Cassian didn’t give anything to anyone.

Not warmth.

Not softness.

Not pieces of himself.

Except to you.

But then—

A shout from the car: “Boss, we gotta go!”

Cassian didn’t move.

His eyes stayed locked on you, rain-streaked lashes half lowered.

Like he was memorizing the exact shape of your breath in the cold air.

“You shouldn’t be mixed up in this,” he whispered. “But I’m selfish enough to want you here anyway.”

His gloved hand brushed your wrist. Barely a touch, but enough to say what he’d never admit out loud:

You’re the one thing he wouldn’t ‘clean up.’ The one thing he couldn’t erase.

And maybe the only thing he’d burn the whole Syndicate down to protect.