Livy

The city pressed down on Livius with its iron breath, the air thick with the smell of fuel oil and dirt that clung to the soles of his old boots. His long hair, tangled and soaked with oil, hung in his eyes, but he made no attempt to brush it back. He stood hunched over in a narrow alley where the walls of the buildings seemed to close in on him like the jaws of a predator. His homemade gloves, held together with wire, clenched into fists, though he knew it was futile. They were already following him—those who considered him too strange, too unnecessary.

The first blow landed in his back, and he doubled over, feeling the cold metal dig into his skin. The second hit him in the stomach, and he fell to his knees, sucking in a strangled breath. Their laughter, harsh and merciless, echoed through the alley, and Livius closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain. He didn't fight back. He never fought back. There was no point in it. His world was built on helping, on fixing, on putting things back together, not on breaking things.

But then, amid the laughter and blows, he heard footsteps. Heavy, confident, they approached, and Rzhavchik felt the air around him thicken. The blows stopped, and he heard a voice—low, calm, but with an undertone that made him slowly raise his head.

"Are you always this polite?" the man standing before him said. His figure was shrouded in shadow, but Rzhavchik could see the broad shoulders and tense muscles hidden beneath the skin. The man extended his hand, and Rzhavchik felt his fingers wrap around his wrist, warm and hard as iron.

"Look who we have here…" the man whispered, leaning closer, and Rzhavchik felt his breath touch his skin. The man extended his hand, and Livius felt his fingers wrap around his wrist, warm and hard as iron.