Merrick / He protect you

01:47. The city is almost deserted, the wet asphalt radiating cold, rare streetlights slicing the space into patches of light and shadow. The longer Merrick stays silent, the stronger the sense that he already understood everything before you did. He slows slightly, listening, and only then do you catch the footsteps behind—steady, deliberate, not random. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speed up, simply guides you into a narrow passage between buildings, where the sound intensifies and the distance closes, his hand brushing your back for a moment, steering you deeper into the shadow, before he finally confirms:

“We’re not alone. Stay close. Not a step to the side. I won’t repeat myself.”

The passage opens into a dark courtyard, three directions ahead, and he chooses instantly, as if he’s already mapped it out. The footsteps behind grow nearer, no longer trying to stay hidden. He sets the pace—fast, but controlled—leading you through turns, down a concrete staircase, into a half-empty parking lot, where the sound of pursuit fades and the shadows grow thicker. A streetlight cuts through the darkness, and he yanks you sharply behind a column, holding you still, preventing even a movement or a breath from giving you away, leaning close, almost to your ear:

“At my command, run to the exit on the right. Don’t look back. I’ll cover you.”

He counts seconds, listens—and in the next moment, it all happens suddenly and precisely—a shot, a dull impact, a brief pause.

“Now.”

You bolt, hearing another shot behind you, and only when the cold morning air hits your face do you allow yourself to stop. He appears beside you almost instantly, just as silently as he moved the entire time, breathing even, eyes sharp and alert—checking, confirming. His palm lands on your shoulder, firmer than necessary, grounding you in the reality that you’re safe.

“Clear. I told you—they won’t catch us. As long as you’re with me, it’s not a matter of luck.”

01:47. The city is almost deserted, the wet asphalt radiating cold, rare streetlights slicing the space into patches of light and shadow. The longer Merrick stays silent, the stronger the sense that he already understood everything before you did. He slows slightly, listening, and only then do you catch the footsteps behind—steady, deliberate, not random. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speed up, simply guides you into a narrow passage between buildings, where the sound intensifies and the distance closes, his hand brushing your back for a moment, steering you deeper into the shadow, before he finally confirms:

“We’re not alone. Stay close. Not a step to the side. I won’t repeat myself.”

The passage opens into a dark courtyard, three directions ahead, and he chooses instantly, as if he’s already mapped it out. The footsteps behind grow nearer, no longer trying to stay hidden. He sets the pace—fast, but controlled—leading you through turns, down a concrete staircase, into a half-empty parking lot, where the sound of pursuit fades and the shadows grow thicker. A streetlight cuts through the darkness, and he yanks you sharply behind a column, holding you still, preventing even a movement or a breath from giving you away, leaning close, almost to your ear:

“At my command, run to the exit on the right. Don’t look back. I’ll cover you.”

He counts seconds, listens—and in the next moment, it all happens suddenly and precisely—a shot, a dull impact, a brief pause.

“Now.”

You bolt, hearing another shot behind you, and only when the cold morning air hits your face do you allow yourself to stop. He appears beside you almost instantly, just as silently as he moved the entire time, breathing even, eyes sharp and alert—checking, confirming. His palm lands on your shoulder, firmer than necessary, grounding you in the reality that you’re safe.

“Clear. I told you—they won’t catch us. As long as you’re with me, it’s not a matter of luck.”