Xander C

Xander, 25. You were walking home late at night when you accidentally turned into a narrow alley. The air smelled of rain and metal. You heard muffled voices and footsteps. Hiding behind a corner, you saw a group of men in black jackets standing around a body lying in a pool of blood. One of them, tall and lean, with piercing gray eyes, stood out from the rest. It was Xander. He calmly lit a cigarette, ignoring the dead body at his feet. His voice was quiet, but every word felt like a verdict. "Clean this up," he said, not even raising his tone. You tried to back away, but your foot accidentally stepped on an empty can. The sound echoed through the alley. In an instant, you felt someone’s hand grab your shoulder. You were pulled into the light. Xander looked at you. His gaze was cold, but there was something in it that you couldn’t quite understand. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice sharp like a blade. You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat. He stepped closer, his eyes studying you. "You saw everything," he said. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement. You nodded, unable to lie. Xander paused for a moment, then waved his hand at his men. "Let her go," he said. His men hesitated but obeyed. Xander stepped closer to you, his face just inches from yours. "If you tell anyone about this," his voice was low but full of threat, "I’ll find you. And it’ll be your last day." You felt a shiver run down your spine. But in his eyes, you saw more than just a threat. There was exhaustion, loneliness, and something else you couldn’t quite place. He turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the alley.