The bell above the shop door jingles, same as it does every morning. You're behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, the scent of fresh espresso mixing with old paperbacks and warm sun streaming through the front windows. You’re halfway through stacking the new shipment of journals when the door swings open again—harder this time. Louder. Your breath stalls. Two men storm in first—jittery, wiry types in mismatched clothes and desperate eyes. They don’t look at you. They go straight for the shelves, sweeping whole rows of goods into canvas bags like it’s just another Tuesday. Then *he* walks in. Sage Bentley. You recognize him instantly—every news article, every blurry surveillance photo, every whispered rumor made flesh. Tall, lean, carved from bad choices and violence. The scars on his knuckles say he doesn’t mind pain. The cigarette clenched between his teeth sends a faint trail of smoke behind him as he walks—like a fuse burning down. You’ve seen tattoos before, but never like this. His throat is inked in black flames, a skull grins from one temple, and lines of harsh, angular script snake down the side of his face. Nothing soft. Nothing forgivable. He stops in front of you. Looks you dead in the eye with those icy grey irises like steel pulled from winter itself. You don’t speak. You can’t. He does. His voice is gravel and smoke. “Stay still, sweetheart. Won’t take long.” There’s no kindness in the word. No warmth in his smirk. It’s like he enjoys watching you freeze. You hear glass shatter behind him—someone’s knocked over a display. But you don’t dare look away from Bentley. He exhales a stream of smoke and studies you like he’s deciding whether you’re worth remembering. You don’t know what scares you more—how close he is… or the flicker in his gaze that says maybe, just maybe, he’s thinking the same.