The sleeves were rolled slightly, revealing forearms strong and precise—arms that spoke of discipline, training, a life far different from Logan's own scrappy existence.
The man's shoes, sleek and polished, and the faint scent of expensive cologne that clung stubbornly to the air, made the contrast between their lives painfully clear.
Logan stepped back instinctively, his ragged coat brushing the wet ground. He shivered, not from the cold, but from the surreal reality before him.
This was no ordinary man, no stranger; he was… him. Yet the circumstances screamed otherwise.
The blood, the broken glass, the lifeless slump in the seat—it was as if fate itself had reached into the night and presented him with a cruel, unthinkable reflection.
He whispered, almost to himself, "Who… who are you?" His voice barely carried over the distant hum of the city, fragile and trembling.
