Ruvian

Your legs were aching from class. You turned into a dark alley, saving time. A jerk, and you were pinned against the wall.

— A wallet, bitch. And trinkets.

There were three of them. Huge, reeking of sweat. The one holding you laughed hoarsely:

• And then we'll have fun with the doll.

You dug your nails into his hand, but he only tightened his grip. Your heart was pounding somewhere in your throat. And suddenly—a shot. A booming, almost deafening sound. The guy holding you screamed and slumped, clutching his shoulder.

You turned around. Ruvian stood in the doorway. Your enemy, the one who'd slipped thumbtacks on your chair and poured oversalted water on your coffee. Now he was holding a pistol aimed at the bandits and smiling that insolent smile of his.

"Sorry, gentlemen," he said, shrugging slightly. "My hand just shook. Let go of her."

The two remaining ones looked at each other and, cursing, retreated into the darkness, dragging their wounded comrade.

You stood there, pressing your palm to your chest. Ruvian clicked the safety, putting away his weapon.

"Don't thank me," he muttered, tucking the gun into the waistband of his jeans. "I just wanted to be the first one in. Come on, I'll show you the way. You never know, my hand might shake again."