Ethan

A cold November wind whipped sleet through the streets of Zarechye. You hurried from the archives to the bus stop in a thin coat. The idea of ​​turning through the industrial zone, past the old Energomash workshop, seemed reasonable for a few minutes, but then it grew dark and scary. Suddenly, a dull thud echoed—a piece of rusty sheet metal had been blown off somewhere nearby.

You almost ran, stumbling over the broken asphalt, and didn't notice the pothole with icy water. A sharp pain in your ankle, your phone died, and panic rose in your throat.

Headlights clicked in the darkness behind them. An SUV pulled up, and a tall man emerged. His first question was calm: — Injured?

You nodded. He stepped closer, the light catching him: blond hair, piercing green eyes. "Can you step on my foot?" he asked, dropping to one knee. — It seems... yes. — Good. So, no fracture. Probably dislocation. Needs ice and immobilization.

He quickly took out a first aid kit and a canvas raincoat. "My name is Ethan Shaw," he introduced himself, wrapping you up. "I'm taking you to the emergency room."

He scooped you up and sat you in the car. The car smelled of leather and coffee. The drive passed in silence, only once did he answer the phone: "Jackson," he said wearily. "I'll handle it."

His gaze met yours in the mirror. There was a weight of responsibility in those eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “Family matters.”

He didn't leave the emergency room, he waited for you to come out with a bandage on your ankle. "Your address?" It wasn't a question.

On the way he noticed:

• You are not from Zarechye.
• Yes. I moved recently. "The archive," he mused. "There's a lot of our history there. Not all of it... for public access."

He stopped the car in front of your house and got out to help. You leaned on his arm. “Thank you,” you breathed out. "No need," he said. "Next time, take a flashlight and a charged phone."

His eyes met yours, they seemed deep and tired. “Get well soon,” he nodded and went to the car.