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H e stabbed his target in the neck, a quick and easy death, and the man crumbled to the ground. When he lifted his head up, two police officers stood at the other end, horrified expressions on their faces.

He cursed under his breath.

“Stop—Stop right there!” one of them shouted, while the other used his intercom to call for backup and an ambulance.

He darted in the opposite direction as they chased him, turning left and right and right again, trying his best to lose them.

As he sprinted through the crowd, he shoved a man out of his way.

Normally, he never spared a glance at who he pushed aside, but this time something made him look back.

It was an elderly man, balding with greying hair clinging to the sides of his head, his deeply etched wrinkles telling the story of a long life.

Behind his thick glasses, his eyes were wide with fear—terrified of falling, of breaking his hip, or worse. He looked like his late father.

He stopped abruptly, guilt shooting through him, and reached out.

Grabbing the old man's arm and the back of his head, he softened the impact, carefully lowering him to the ground.

His own mouth hung open in shock, struggling to process the moment.

But the sound of approaching officers, their whistles sharp in the air, snapped him back to the present.

Glancing back, he saw someone rushing to help the old man up, and thankfully, it seemed no harm had been done. No time to dwell. He whipped back around, taking a sharp turn into a narrow alley—and crashed right into someone. Dead viola flowers burst into the air as he tumbled to the ground.

He groaned curses.

The police shouted in the distance. The person he had bumped into pushed him into the door she had come out of and hid him behind a few boxes placing a finger to her lips.

Then she went out to pick up the flowers that had fallen onto the ground and the man covered his mouth to keep from breathing so hard.

“You, miss!” the police shouted, out of breath. “Did you see a man run past?”

His heart dropped when she replied. “Yes, officers.”

Feeling instantly betrayed, he pulled out his knife, ready to strike and escape. His legs trembled with adrenaline.

Instead, she pointed down the alley. “He knocked me over and continued down there,” she said in an exaggerated annoyed tone.

“Thanks, miss.” They gave her a polite nod and continued sprinting down the alley.

He took a few more moments to breathe before getting up to help the woman with the flowers. “I’m sorry about your flowers,” he said.

“Don’t worry, I was throwing them out,” she reassured.

He finally looked up at his saviour, shocked to find a young woman with glasses staring back at him.

She was unexpectedly beautiful, with freckles dusting her cheeks and withered viola flowers tangled in her dishevelled hair.

Dirt smudged her dress, but even in that disarray, she seemed radiant.

His heart raced—not just from the running. “Why did you help me?”

She met his eyes and gave him a smile but didn’t answer. Instead, she pointed at the dark red stains on him. “Blood? ”

“It’s paint,” he blurted out, but it was stupid of him to lie, she saw the police chasing after him. He put his face in his hand and bit his tongue, wishing he didn’t say anything at all.

She gave him a sad smile. “As long as it’s not yours.”

He didn’t understand why she was being so nice, there was nothing forcing her to help him. “Uh, so, um.” His eyes looked everywhere but at her, a blush creeping up his face, before resting on the sign of the florist. “You work here?”

It was just another stupid thing to come out of his mouth, as she was wearing an apron with the florist logo on it.

“Yes.” She giggled with a light blush across her cheeks.

He offered his hand to help her stand. “Are you injured?”

Her soft hands took his calloused ones. “Nothing that won’t heal.” She gave him a small bow. “My name is Renee.”

He politely bowed back. “Nikodemus.”