Evan didn't stop running until his lungs burned.
His sneakers slapped against wet pavement as he turned corner after corner, the city blurring into streaks of light and shadow. He didn't know where he was going—only that every step away from that alley felt like survival.
By the time he reached his apartment building, his hands were shaking.
He fumbled with his keys, dropped them once, cursed under his breath, then finally shoved the door open and locked it behind him. The click of the lock echoed too loudly in the small space.
Evan leaned against the door, chest heaving.
It didn't happen, he told himself.
You didn't see anything. You imagined it.
But the image refused to leave.
The body.
The blood.
And most of all—those eyes.
Not angry. Not cruel.
Just… aware.
Evan slid down to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. His apartment smelled like detergent and cheap instant noodles. Normal. Safe. Too fragile to protect him from what he had seen.
He didn't sleep that night.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again—that moment when the man had looked at him, not like prey, not like a threat, but like a problem to be solved.
By morning, Evan had convinced himself of one thing:
He had been lucky.
No one followed him.
No knock came at his door.
The city continued as if nothing had happened.
Life went on.
Or so he thought.
At college, the world felt off. Not dangerous—just wrong. Evan sat in his usual seat, took notes, answered questions when called on. But his awareness was sharpened, stretched thin like a wire ready to snap.
Every sound made him look up.
Every shadow felt closer than it should.
When someone brushed past him in the hallway, his heart leapt into his throat.
Get it together, he told himself.
People died every day in this city. Violence wasn't new. It just usually happened somewhere else.
By evening, Evan almost believed he could forget.
Almost.
His café shift was slow. A few regulars. Quiet music. Steam from the coffee machine fogged the windows, blurring the outside world into something distant and harmless.
At nine forty-seven, the bell above the door rang.
The temperature in the room changed.
Evan felt it before he saw anything—a pressure, subtle but absolute, like the air itself had decided to pay attention.
Three men walked in.
They didn't look like trouble. Clean suits. Calm movements. Too calm. The kind of men who didn't rush because nothing ever forced them to.
Evan's hands tightened around the counter.
One of them smiled politely. "Coffee. Black."
Evan nodded, his body moving on instinct. As he turned toward the machine, his gaze flicked to the reflection in the glass.
And then he saw him.
The man from the alley stood near the entrance, coat dark, posture relaxed. He wasn't looking around. He wasn't watching the room.
He was watching Evan.
Directly.
Evan's breath hitched.
The man hadn't chased him.
Hadn't dragged him back into the dark.
He had waited.
Evan's fingers trembled as he poured the coffee. The cup rattled softly against the saucer—just once, but it felt loud enough to shatter the room.
The man approached the counter alone.
Up close, he was worse.
Not violent. Not intimidating in an obvious way. His face was composed, sharp lines softened by an expression that suggested patience rather than mercy.
"You ran fast," the man said quietly.
Evan froze.
"I—" His voice barely worked. "I think you have the wrong person."
The man tilted his head slightly, studying him. "You looked back," he replied. "Most people don't."
Evan swallowed. "I didn't see anything."
"That," the man said calmly, "is a lie."
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
Finally, the man reached into his coat—not hurried, not threatening—and placed a card on the counter.
No logo. No company name.
Just two words.
Victor Kane.
And a phone number.
"Finish your shift," Victor said. "Go home. Pack a bag."
Evan's pulse roared in his ears. "I'm not—"
Victor's gaze hardened—not with anger, but with certainty.
"You're not leaving the city," he said. "And you're not calling the police."
Victor leaned in just enough for Evan to smell smoke and rain on his coat.
"You belong to this situation now," he added softly. "Whether you like it or not."
Victor straightened, took the coffee without touching Evan's hand, and turned toward the door.
He paused once.
"I don't kill witnesses who cooperate," he said. "Don't make me regret that."
The bell rang again.
And just like that, Victor Kane was gone.
Evan stood there, heart pounding, staring at the card in his hand.
This time, there was no running.
Because Evan understood something terrifyingly clear:
The man hadn't found him by chance.
He had always intended to keep him.