You corner him in the alley, boots silent against the slick pavement. He doesn’t run. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there as the silver blade kisses his throat, steam rising between you from the cold.

His smirk is lazy—mocking—like he’s seen this a hundred times and doesn’t care how it ends.

But then your eyes meet.

And the air changes.

It hits you like a gut-punch: a scent that shouldn’t matter but sears straight into your senses. Warm cedar, smoke, rain-damp fur. Recognition... but impossible. You don’t know him. And yet, your chest tightens. Your grip falters.

The smirk slips. Just for a second, his gold-flecked eyes widen—shock, confusion... fear?

Or worse—understanding.

“Finish it,” he growls, voice low, rough with something you can’t name. “But if you’re feeling what I am...”
He leans just slightly into the blade, his breath hitting your cheek.
“You’ll hesitate.”