The rain had turned the city into a canvas of blurred lights and restless shadows. Nikolai watched droplets race each other down the backseat window of his car, his reflection fractured between them.
"She's just a girl," Viktor's voice echoed from earlier, calm but questioning.
Yes, Nikolai thought. She is. And that's why she should be left alone.
But the city didn't care for what should happen. And neither did his enemies.
It wasn't chance that had brought him back to that café tonight. Days of watching from a careful distance had only made the pull worse, not weaker. The moment he saw fear flicker behind her smile, the decision was made before he admitted it to himself.
He couldn't keep pretending she was invisible.
"Do you often walk home this late?"
The question had slipped out harsher than he meant, edged by the anger he felt at the idea of anyone trying to frighten her. Anger he had no right to feel.
Now, the car hummed through wet streets, the city outside alive with sirens, neon, and secrets. Viktor sat beside him, quiet as always, but watchful.
"She accepted the card," Viktor said finally.
"I saw," Nikolai replied.
"And if she calls?"
Nikolai stared at the raindrops turning to silver threads under passing streetlights. "Then I'll answer."
Silence settled, heavy but familiar. Viktor broke it again, carefully. "Boss, you know what it means to let her see you. To know your name."
"I know," Nikolai answered. His voice stayed level, but the weight of it pressed against his chest.
"She doesn't belong in this," Viktor continued, softer now. "Your world isn't built for someone like her."
I know, Nikolai thought again. That's why I should stay away.
But he couldn't. The moment he spoke to her, the line was already crossed.
In the privacy of his mind, he admitted a truth he wouldn't say aloud:
It wasn't just about protecting her. It was also about seeing something pure and untouched by blood and power — something he had lost long ago.
When her wide eyes had met his in the café, it had felt like standing on the edge of a cliff: terrifying, but impossible to step back from.
The car pulled up to the townhouse that served as his unofficial headquarters. Nikolai didn't move to get out immediately. Instead, he sat in the quiet, watching the rain until it blurred everything beyond recognition.
He whispered her name once, barely audible, as if testing how it felt on his tongue.
"Amara."
Soft, foreign, but strangely grounding.
And deep down, in the part of him still unguarded, he knew:
If danger truly found her, he wouldn't hesitate.
Even if it meant burning the fragile line that separated her world from his.
I couldn't stop staring at it.
The business card lay on my nightstand, catching the glow of the streetlight outside: Nikolai Petrov. Just a name and a number, nothing else — yet it felt heavier than anything else in my room.
Call if you feel unsafe, he'd said.
Simple words, but they had settled into my chest like a secret I wasn't ready to share with anyone.
That night, I lay in bed long after the city's noise faded to a restless hum. My thumb hovered over my phone screen, ready to dial, then slipped away again.
What would I even say?
"Hello, it's me, the girl you barely know. I think someone might be following me…"
It sounded paranoid. Ridiculous, even.
Besides, what kind of man had someone else watching me before we'd even exchanged a full conversation?
I told myself it was better to pretend nothing was happening. That tomorrow, the city would feel normal again.
The next morning, it almost did.
The café felt busy, loud, alive. I took orders, wiped tables, and forced my mind to stay on milk foam and receipts. But beneath it, the memory of that sharp-eyed man from the other day kept pulsing like a bruise.
During a lull in the afternoon, I stepped outside to catch a breath. The air smelled of rain and exhaust, damp concrete underfoot.
Then I felt it.
Someone across the street — watching me openly this time. A man in a dark hoodie, leaning against a lamppost. His gaze was direct, unbothered, almost challenging.
I looked away quickly, heart racing, and stepped back inside.
By evening, I was so wound up that every shadow felt like it hid a threat. After my shift, I took a different route home, cutting through busier streets, telling myself it was nothing.
But halfway down a block, I heard footsteps behind me. Not rushed — deliberate. Matching my pace.
I forced myself not to run, my palms slick with sweat, until I finally reached my building. Only then did I dare to look back.
The street was empty.
But emptiness can feel just as loud.
Inside my tiny room, I locked the door, sat on the bed, and took out the card.
I turned it over and over, tracing the letters like they might answer me.
What if calling him makes things worse?
What if not calling is worse still?
The memory of his eyes in the café — steady, unreadable, but not unkind — tipped the scale.
Before I could change my mind, I dialed.
It rang only once.
"Amara," came his voice, low and calm, as if he'd been waiting.
For a second, my words caught in my throat. Then I found them.
"I… I think someone followed me," I whispered. "I don't know what to do."
A pause — just long enough to feel its weight.
"Where are you?" he asked quietly.
"At home."
"I'm sending someone to watch the building tonight," he said. "You won't see him, but he'll be there."
I closed my eyes, relief and fear tangling together. "Why would anyone follow me? I don't have anything. I'm nobody here."
His voice softened, but it held an edge of steel. "You're not nobody, Amara. And sometimes, that's enough."
Before I could reply, he added, "Stay inside tonight. Lock your windows. And… thank you for calling."
The line clicked, leaving me in silence.
I placed the phone on my lap, my pulse slowly steadying.
Part of me still didn't understand who he really was — or why danger had started to orbit my life the moment he stepped into it.
But tonight, for the first time since I arrived in New York, I didn't feel completely alone.
And even if I knew I should be afraid, part of me felt something else:
A dangerous kind of trust.