The rain came down so hard that even street cats had to find somewhere safe to get shelter.
Eli Park kept his head down, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. The city at night was all neon bleeding into wet pavement, car horns layered over distant sirens, the kind of noise that became silence if you lived here long enough. He'd stopped really hearing it months ago.
His phone buzzed. Rent reminder. He swiped it away without reading and kept walking.
The shortcut through the financial district saved him ten minutes and a bus fare he couldn't spare this week. The streets here were wider, cleaner, lined with buildings that looked like they'd been designed to make you feel small. Even at this hour, a few were still lit from within. Top floors glowing with the kind of ambition that didn't sleep.
Eli had never been inside any of them.
He was thinking about tomorrow's shift, about whether he had enough instant ramen left, about his mom's upcoming birthday and whether he could afford to send her something this year, when he saw the shape on the sidewalk.
At first, he thought it was trash. A discarded coat, maybe. The rain made everything look like it was melting into the concrete.
Then it moved.
Eli slowed. Stopped.
A man. Slumped against the base of a streetlight, one hand pressed to his side, the other braced against the pole like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His suit was dark, expensive, even Eli could tell that—and there was something wet and black spreading across his shirt that wasn't rain.
Blood.
People walked past. A woman in heels, phone pressed to her ear. Two guys in finance bros uniforms, laughing about something. A delivery driver on a bike, swerving around the obstacle without slowing.
No one stopped.
Eli's feet moved before his brain caught up.
"Hey." His voice came out rougher than he meant. He crouched down, close enough to see the man's face now. Sharp features, dark hair plastered to his forehead, jaw tight with pain. His eyes were half-closed, but there was something about the way he held himself—controlled, even now. Like he was deciding whether to pass out or stay conscious through sheer force of will.
"Hey, can you hear me?"
The man's eyes snapped open.
Eli flinched. He couldn't help it. The look in those eyes was. Wrong wasn't the right word. Intense. Focused. Like even bleeding out on a sidewalk, this man was assessing, calculating, deciding what Eli was worth.
"I'm calling an ambulance," Eli said, already reaching for his phone.
The man's hand shot out and caught his wrist.
The grip was weak, trembling, but the intent behind it was clear. Don't.
"You need a hospital," Eli said.
"No." The word came out barely above a whisper, but it wasn't a request. It was an order.
Eli stared at him. Up close, he could see the man was older than him—late thirties, maybe—and there was something about his face that made Eli think of marble. Cold. Perfect. Untouchable. Except for the blood, and the way his breathing was too shallow, too fast.
"You're bleeding," Eli said, like that wasn't obvious.
"I'm aware."
The hand on Eli's wrist loosened, fell away. The man's eyes slipped closed again, and for a second Eli thought he'd lost him. Then his chest rose, fell. Rose again.
Screw it.
Eli dialed 911.
The ambulance took eight minutes. Eli stayed the whole time, crouched next to a stranger who didn't want his help but was going to get it anyway. He kept his hand on the man's shoulder—not sure why, just that it felt wrong to let him be alone like this.
The man didn't speak again. Didn't open his eyes. But Eli could feel the tension in him, coiled tight even as his body gave out.
When the paramedics arrived, they moved with efficient urgency. Questions Eli couldn't answer. Vitals checked, IV started, the man loaded onto a stretcher with the kind of care reserved for something fragile and expensive.
"You coming?" one of the paramedics asked Eli.
"I don't—I don't know him."
"You're the one who called it in. Might want to give a statement."
Eli looked at the man on the stretcher. His eyes were open again, fixed on Eli with that same unreadable intensity.
"Yeah," Eli heard himself say. "Yeah, okay."
The hospital was too bright and smelled like disinfectant trying to cover something worse. Eli sat in a plastic chair outside the ER, still damp, watching nurses move past with the kind of exhausted purpose he recognized from his own late shifts at the call center.
He should leave. He'd done his part. The man was alive, being treated, and Eli had work in six hours.
But he didn't move.
"Mr. Park?"
Eli looked up. A doctor stood in front of him, clipboard in hand, expression professionally neutral.
"That's me."
"The patient is stable. Knife wound, non-critical. He was lucky." The doctor paused. "He's asking for you."
Eli blinked. "He is?"
"Room 214."
The room was dim, just one light over the bed casting everything in shades of blue and gray. The man from the sidewalk lay propped against pillows, an IV in his arm, bandages visible beneath the hospital gown. He looked smaller here, somehow. More human.
His eyes tracked Eli the moment he stepped through the door.
"Hi," Eli said, because someone had to break the silence. "The doctor said you wanted to see me?"
The man didn't answer right away. Just studied him with that same assessing look, like Eli was a problem he was trying to solve.
"You stayed," the man said finally. His voice was stronger now, low and controlled.
"You were bleeding on a sidewalk. Someone had to."
"Most people didn't."
Eli shrugged. "Most people are assholes."
Something flickered across the man's face. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything Eli could name.
"What's your name?" the man asked.
"Eli. Eli Park." He hesitated. "What's yours?"
"Adrian Vale."
The name landed between them like a stone in still water. Eli waited for it to mean something. It didn't.
"Well, Adrian Vale," Eli said, "you should probably stop getting stabbed in alleys."
"Noted."
Silence stretched. Adrian was still watching him, and Eli was starting to feel like a specimen under glass. It was irritating. He'd saved this guy's life, and all he was getting was this weird, intense stare and zero gratitude.
"Look," Eli said, "I'm glad you're okay. But I should—"
"I don't forget debts."
Eli stopped. "What?"
"You helped me." Adrian's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I don't forget that."
"It's not—I wasn't looking for anything. I just—"
"I know." Adrian's eyes didn't leave his. "That's why it matters."
Eli didn't know what to say to that. The weight in Adrian's voice made it sound like a promise. Or a threat. Maybe both.
"Okay," Eli said finally. "Sure. Whatever."
He left before Adrian could say anything else.
Eli didn't think about Adrian Vale for the rest of the night. Or the next morning. Or during his shift, when his supervisor yelled at him for being two minutes late and his headset gave him a migraine and the woman on the phone called him six different variations of incompetent.
He didn't think about him at all.
Until he was standing in line at the convenience store near his apartment, staring at the TV mounted above the register while he waited to pay for his instant ramen and energy drink.
The news was on. Some corporate story he wasn't paying attention to. Then the image changed.
A man in a suit, standing in front of a building Eli recognized from his walk last night. Sharp features. Dark hair. Eyes that looked just as intense on screen as they had in person.
"—Adrian Vale, CEO of Vale Industries, released a statement today regarding—"
Eli's energy drink hit the floor.
The cashier was saying something. Eli wasn't hearing it. He was staring at the screen, at the man he'd pulled off a sidewalk, at the name beneath his face.
Adrian Vale. CEO. Vale Industries.
The building he'd walked past every day for six months. The one that looked like it was designed to make you feel small.
"Sir? Sir, you need to pay for that."
Eli looked down at the energy drink leaking across the floor, then back up at the screen.
Adrian Vale wasn't just rich. He was powerful. The kind of powerful that made the news. The kind that had entire floors of lawyers and security and people whose job it was to make problems disappear.
And Eli had crouched next to him on a sidewalk. Had touched him. Had argued with him.
I don't forget debts.
"Oh," Eli said quietly. "Shit."
The cashier sighed. "That's seven dollars for the drink and the ramen."
Eli paid. Walked home in a daze. Climbed the three flights to his apartment with legs that felt disconnected from his body.
He was halfway through his door when his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Eli stared at it. Let it go to voicemail. Closed his door, locked it, leaned against it like that would somehow keep the world out.
His phone buzzed again. A text this time.
Unknown: Mr. Park. A car will arrive at your address at 8 AM tomorrow. Please be ready.
Eli's heart kicked against his ribs. He typed back with shaking hands.
Eli: Wrong number
Three dots appeared immediately. Then:
Unknown: We don't make mistakes. The car is black. License plate VL-7739. Mr. Vale is expecting you.
Eli's apartment suddenly felt too small. Too exposed. He moved to the window, pulled the curtain back just enough to see the street below.
A black sedan was parked across from his building. Engine off. Windows tinted. It hadn't been there when he came home.
As he watched, the driver's side door opened. A man in a dark suit stepped out, looked up—directly at Eli's window—and nodded once.
Eli dropped the curtain.
His phone buzzed a third time.
Unknown: 8 AM, Mr. Park. Don't make him wait.