The rain came down like vengeance, slamming against the cabin windows in violent bursts. Grace Bennett had just set the kettle on the stove when the power flickered, then went out completely, throwing the room into silence except for the relentless tapping of the storm outside.
She sighed, grabbed a flashlight, and stepped onto the porch. The old wooden boards creaked under her bare feet as she stared into the thick darkness, the beam of light cutting through the misty sheets of rain.
That's when she saw him.
At first, she thought it was a trick of the storm. A shadow slumped at the edge of her property, unmoving. But when lightning cracked the sky and lit up the path, her breath caught.
There was a man collapsed on the gravel—soaked, bloodied, and barely breathing.
"Jesus," she whispered, heart pounding as instincts kicked in. She grabbed a blanket and ran toward him, ignoring the cold mud sucking at her steps.
His face was half-covered in blood, one eye swollen shut. A deep gash ran across his ribs, his shirt shredded and soaked through. His lips moved, barely.
"Don't... call anyone," he rasped, voice hoarse and trembling.
Grace froze, fingers gripping the blanket tighter. "You need a hospital," she said, kneeling beside him.
"No," he growled, stronger this time. His hand fumbled for something—her eyes followed. A gun, tucked beneath his jacket.
Her stomach clenched.
She should've walked away. Let him die right there. But something in his eyes—dark, desperate, shattered—stopped her.
"God help me," she muttered, wrapping the blanket around him and pulling with all her strength.
---
By the time she got him inside, her muscles ached and her clothes were drenched. He passed out on her couch, blood soaking through the throw pillow beneath his head.
She locked the door, shut the blinds, and grabbed her medical kit from the hall closet.
Who was he? A runaway? A killer? A victim?
Her hands trembled as she cleaned his wound, stitched the gash with practiced precision. She tried not to look at the tattoos on his chest—inked names, Roman numerals, and a black skull.
When she finished, she sat across from him, studying the stranger who could very well be the end of her.
Then, he stirred. His eyes blinked open—one green, the other bloodshot and nearly black.
"Name?" she asked softly.
He hesitated, voice like gravel. "Luca."
A lie. She could feel it.
But Grace only nodded, even as her gut screamed otherwise.
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.
Inside, Grace unknowingly offered shelter to the devil himself.