It was 1:12 a.m.
A full moon hung low in the sky, its silver light spilling a cold, unforgiving brilliance across the empty street. The air was crisp—almost painfully pure—and the stars glittered with unsettling clarity, like sharp shards scattered through the darkness above the city. Every light reflected off the slick asphalt, fractured into tiny pools of ghostly luminescence.
Wind whispered between tall, narrow buildings, carrying dried leaves and the distant, muffled hum of the main city. It was a restless sound, as if the world had fallen asleep yet continued to breathe uneasily. The rustle of paper, a snapping twig, the faint clink of distant glass—every noise sharpened Tomas' senses, steadying him in the quiet tension of the night.
Tomas walked slowly, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his heavy coat. The remnants of whiskey offered no warmth—only a dull, physical weight that pressed down on his chest, grounding him in the cold, empty world.
To live or to die… it's all the same.
The thought had lingered before, countless nights, clinging to the edges of his mind like a shadow he couldn't shake. He moved through the streets like a ghost—weightless in purpose yet burdened by the invisible chains of his checklist. Every step echoed softly in the alleyways, bouncing off walls that had heard far too many confessions, far too many cries.
This night was no different from the thousands before it. Until he heard it.
"Someone… please help."
A girl's voice. Quiet. Trembling with shock and effort, but unmistakably real.
The wind carried the sound straight to him, slicing through the silence with surgical precision. His heart didn't race. His pulse didn't quicken—he was past that. But something inside him shifted, a cold recognition of necessity.
Tomas stopped.
Across the street, near a solitary bus stop beneath a flickering streetlamp, four shadows stood clustered together.
One of them held the girl by the hair, forcing her head down. Her clothes were torn. One hand pressed against her cheek, already slick with dark blood.
I'm drunk, he thought first—a rationalization, a shield.
Not my problem, followed immediately—a defense.
He began to turn away, his shoes scraping lightly against the concrete. The city's silence seemed to whisper: move along, it's none of your business.
Then again—softer now, barely sound at all:
"…please… help…"
Something stirred inside him. Not pity. Not heroism. A rigid refusal to abandon another human being to disaster when intervention was physically possible. A mechanical sense of obligation, drilled into him over years of disciplined thought and cold rationality.
Point three, he recalled.
Help a stranger in real distress.
He stopped turning.
His voice cut through the street—not loud, but perfectly measured, cold and sharp as a scalpel.
"Hey. What do you think you're doing? Let the girl go."
The four men turned together. Laughter followed—rough, alcohol-soaked, echoing down the empty corridor of buildings. A sound thick with casual malice, a noise that might have broken a weaker man.
"Get lost if you want to stay alive," growled the biggest one. His leather jacket stretched tight across his shoulders, a physical threat made tangible.
"And if I don't?" Tomas asked.
His voice was flat, emotionless. A crooked, dangerous smile flickered briefly at the corner of his mouth.
"Then you're next," hissed a thin man with a crude black tattoo crawling up his neck. "We finish her, then we finish you."
Tomas laughed.
It was sharp and hollow, completely without humor. The sound made the night feel colder, a sudden chill creeping over the asphalt and into the bones of those nearby. The men exchanged uneasy glances.
"This guy's crazy," one muttered.
"Or too drunk to feel pain," another said, forcing confidence into his voice.
"Alive or dead… it doesn't matter," Tomas murmured, almost to himself, his gaze fixed on the leader. "Let's see what fate has planned for this configuration of events."
Tomas wasn't dangerous because of brute strength. He was dangerous because he understood the human body. Years of anatomy study had taught him where nerves clustered, where tendons stretched thin, where joints failed under minimal pressure. He fought with knowledge, not rage—precision instead of force. His body was merely an instrument, disciplined and obedient to understanding.
He stepped forward, closing the distance.
His hands slipped from his pockets and curled into fists. Muscles tightened beneath his sleeves, rigid and ready.
The biggest man lunged first—a wide, sloppy punch aimed straight at Tomas's face.
Tomas tilted his head slightly. The fist passed close enough for him to feel the air move.
"Too slow," he said quietly.
His hand shot forward. Two fingers struck precisely beside the carotid artery—a clean, surgical blow.
The man collapsed instantly, eyes rolling back as his body hit the pavement with a dull, heavy sound. Silence followed.
The second attacker charged from the side.
"Now you're mine!" he roared, reaching to grapple.
Tomas caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted sharply.
"Wrong angle."
Before the pain fully registered, Tomas drove his knee into the liver. Air burst from the man's lungs in a wheezing shriek as he folded over, choking.
"You… bastard…" he gasped.
The girl opened her eyes through blood and tears. She recognized him—the quiet, empty man from the bar. Only now, that emptiness had become something else. Something dangerous. Unstoppable.
The third man panicked and ran.
"Not so fast," Tomas said, stepping directly into his path. One strike—clean and controlled—into the solar plexus. The man folded instantly, collapsing to the ground with a guttural sound as his body clawed desperately for air.
Silence returned. Only the wind, distant traffic, and the girl's ragged breathing remained.
Tomas turned toward her. The adrenaline drained quickly, leaving a dull ache in his limbs. His steps slowed.
She was curled against the cold concrete wall, arms wrapped around her knees, trembling violently.
He crouched a short distance away, careful not to crowd her.
"Don't be afraid," he said quietly. "I won't hurt you." His voice was no longer cold—just tired.
Up close, he recognized her.
Laura.
Her blouse was torn at the shoulder. Blood stained her lower lip. A bruise bloomed beneath her eye, dark and spreading. Her hands were scraped raw, nails broken. One leg lay twisted unnaturally beneath her—ankle clearly dislocated.
Her brown eyes met his. Fear still lingered, but beneath it was something else—an uneasy understanding that he was not the danger.
"Are you okay?" Tomas asked, briefly assessing her ankle. "Do you want me to call the police? An ambulance?"
"No!" she cried, too loudly, then softer, shaking. "Not the police. Please."
"Why?"
"They know my uncle," she whispered. "Please don't call. It'll only make things worse."
"All right," Tomas said after a moment. "Where do you live? I'll call a taxi. Or your friends."
"My phone…" She gestured weakly to the shattered screen on the pavement. "I'll manage. I'll get home."
She tried to stand.
The moment she put weight on the injured leg, she collapsed with a sharp, choked scream.
Tomas was beside her instantly.
"Your ankle is dislocated," he said calmly. "You won't be able to walk."
She forced a weak smile.
"I'm… strong."
He removed his coat and draped it carefully around her shoulders.
"It's cold," he said. "You're shaking."
He turned his back to her and lowered himself.
"Get on. I live nearby. You can stay the night. Your wounds need cleaning. And you need rest."
She hesitated, searching his face in the moonlight.
Then she gave a faint, breathless laugh.
"You're not a serial killer… right?"
"No," Tomas replied with strange, blunt honesty, looking straight ahead. "Just tired of living."
She released a small, breathless laugh—a real sound, even through the pain.
"…Okay," she whispered. "I'm Laura."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and climbed onto his back.
Tomas stood, steady and controlled, adjusting effortlessly to her weight.
"Hold on tight," he murmured, the instruction delivered as if reassuring both her and himself. "Let's go."