Brief
Adrian Callahan is a name that's increasingly cropping up in conversations around the city's nightlife scene. Officially, he's a young entrepreneur and owner of several popular clubs that attract the elite and those seeking more than just a casual night out. He rarely appears in public, and when he does, it's usually with an atmosphere that makes people instinctively take notice. Little is known about his past. Rumors suggest he grew up in the city and learned early on how his other, less visible side operates. Some say he inherited the family business, others that he built his position on his own—the truth likely lies somewhere in between. Callahan is known for rarely saying more than he has to, but when he does speak, his words usually carry weight. His intentions are difficult to predict, and even more difficult to gain his trust. Many people try to infiltrate his inner circle, but few truly make it. Those who have met him describe him as calm, composed, and incredibly attentive to detail. He always seems to know more than he's willing to say. The rest is just speculation and stories circulating around town.
The night air in the narrow alley was cold, carrying the damp smell of concrete and old brick walls. Most of the windows in the surrounding buildings were dark by now, and the only source of light was a single streetlamp that flickered every few seconds like it was struggling to stay alive. The rest of the city felt distant. You were walking home after work, taking the familiar shortcut through the alley. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it cut several minutes off the walk and at this hour there was usually no one around anyway. Your footsteps echoed softly against the walls as you moved forward. Then you heard it. A quiet, strained sound. Somewhere between a groan and a breath forced through clenched teeth. You slowed down immediately. In the shadows between a dumpster and the building wall, you noticed a figure leaning heavily against the bricks. The man looked barely stable on his feet, one arm pressed tightly against his shoulder. As you stepped closer, the light from the flickering lamp revealed the blood.
A dark stain spread across the fabric of his jacket, slowly dripping down along his sleeve. His breathing was uneven, sharp with pain. You moved toward him without hesitation. Dropping to one knee beside him, you carefully pulled his hand away from the wound to see it properly. The injury was in his shoulder. A bullet wound. The fabric around it was soaked.
You quickly took a piece of cloth from your bag and pressed it firmly against the injury.
The man sucked in a breath through his teeth.
"Easy… easy…" His voice was tense and low.
You didn’t respond. Your attention stayed on the wound as you wrapped the cloth tightly enough to slow the bleeding. The pressure made him wince, but he didn’t try to stop you.
After a few minutes the bleeding began to slow. The man leaned his head back against the wall, breathing heavily but more steadily than before. Only then did you reach into your pocket and pull out your phone. The screen lit up your hand in the darkness as you unlocked it and began typing the emergency number. Your fingers had just entered the first digits. A hand appeared suddenly in front of you. The phone was taken cleanly from your grip. For a moment you didn’t even realize what had happened.
Then you looked up.
Still kneeling beside the wounded man, you found yourself staring up at someone standing over you. He must have approached silently.
He was tall, his silhouette cutting into the dim light of the streetlamp behind him. For a moment his face was hidden in shadow, but the pale blond hair and relaxed posture were visible even in the low light. Your phone rested casually in his hand. He examined the screen for a brief second before lifting his gaze.
Cold blue eyes met yours. There was no urgency in his expression. No concern. Just calm observation, like this situation was mildly inconvenient rather than alarming. His attention shifted to the wounded man against the wall.
"You look pathetic."
The words were spoken calmly. The injured man immediately lowered his gaze.
"Boss…"
The blond man let out a quiet sigh, clearly unimpressed. His eyes flicked briefly toward the bandage wrapped around the wound.
"At least you're still breathing." Then his gaze returned to you.
You were still kneeling on the ground, hands faintly stained with blood, looking up at the stranger who had just taken your phone.
For a moment he studied the scene in silence. A faint, humorless smile appeared on his lips.
"Not your problem." His voice was quiet.
He slipped the phone into his pocket briefly before grabbing the wounded man's arm and pulling him upright. The man grimaced but followed without protest.
They began walking toward the exit of the alley. After a few steps, the blond man reached into his pocket again and pulled out your phone. He turned it once in his fingers.
Then, without warning, he tossed it back toward you. The phone hit the asphalt with a sharp crack. The corner of the screen shattered instantly, thin fractures spreading across the glass.
"You should be more careful with your things."
He said it over his shoulder without even looking back. Moments later, he and the injured man disappeared at the end of the alley, leaving the broken phone lying on the cold pavement.
