Him

When her small frame collided with his lower chest, Jemisha froze. For a fleeting moment, it felt as if the universe itself had stopped breathing.

The rain poured relentlessly, thunder split the heavens, and in the silver flashes of lightning her pink frock clung to her skin, turned translucent by the storm. The delicate lace of her undergarments was visible beneath the soaked fabric, and her tearful eyes lifted, wide and trembling, to the stranger she had run into.

The man wore a black mask, his hood drawn low, his clothes equally dark—soaked through, yet he stood unmoving under the merciless rain.

When lightning flashed again, Jemisha caught sight of his eyes—light brown, framed by long lashes like dark forest shadows. His gaze fell upon her, and before she could process it, her balance gave way. He caught her instantly, one arm firm around her waist, pulling her close purely by instinct.

Her heart thundered. She didn’t know whether she’d stumbled into the arms of a devil of the night or a human being she had just put in danger. Panic crawled up her spine. She didn’t even get the time to think before a voice shattered the storm.

“Bitch! Stop running!”

It was one of the kidnappers. His shout pierced through the rain like a knife. Jemisha shivered violently, tears spilling anew as her eyes darted to the masked stranger holding her. Her gaze begged—for release, for rescue—while confusion and terror tangled in her chest.

The man’s eyes dropped to her body—her fragile, trembling form in the storm, the soaked fabric outlining her youth. Jemisha panicked, pulling away, covering herself with shaking hands. The downpour pounded harder.

Something inside him broke at that sight. He raised a hand, placing it gently atop her head.

“You don’t need to run,” he said quietly. “Or hide. Or be scared. I’m here.”

He let go for a moment, and she tensed, ready to flee. But before she could move, he shrugged off his long dark green coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“I’m right here, okay?”

His voice—low, warm, steady—was softer than sunlight breaking through clouds. The sincerity in it made her tears fall harder. She clutched his coat tighter, as if it were her only lifeline.

The masked man’s hand found her wrist, holding it gently but firmly as he turned to face the approaching kidnapper. Jemisha stayed behind him, dwarfed by his height and shielded completely by his broad frame.

She had never seen anyone stand between her and danger before. It was foreign—almost sacred—to witness.

The man’s gaze hardened, lethal in its stillness. His eyes—once soft—now gleamed like tempered steel. If looks could kill, the storm would have drowned in blood.

“Who the hell are you?” the kidnapper barked, pulling a knife from his belt. His voice was unsteady despite his act of bravado. “You want to play hero? Let her go. My boss pays well—you’ll get a share if you cooperate.”

Jemisha froze, her heart twisting in dread. Would this masked stranger actually hand her over for money? She tried to pull her wrist free, fear tightening in her chest.

The man didn’t move. His grip remained unyielding. “I’m an officer, kid,” he said without looking back at her, his voice calm but edged with command. “Don’t be afraid.”

The words startled both Jemisha and the kidnapper. In one swift motion, he drew a gun from his waist pouch and fired.

The gunshot cracked through the storm. The older man fell with a scream, clutching his bleeding leg, his cries echoing off the wet, concrete street. Jemisha’s body jerked in terror, her hands trembling uncontrollably. The smell of gunpowder mixed with rain filled the air. Her heart pounded so loud it felt like the sound was trapped inside her skull.

Still, the man stood unmoving—solid, unshaken—shielding her completely.

The second kidnapper appeared from the alley, younger, stronger, a bandage roll still in hand. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, grabbing Jemisha’s free wrist and yanking her toward him.

She gasped, her voice barely escaping, a strangled cry of panic.

“Let me go—!”

The masked man turned sharply, his voice steady but dark as thunder. “I’m sorry for this,” he murmured, “but close your eyes.”

Before she could question him, he pulled her firmly to his chest, her face pressed against the wet fabric of his black uniform. His hand settled protectively at her waist.

Another gunshot shattered the night. The second kidnapper screamed, clutching his wounded arm, collapsing to the ground beside his partner.

Jemisha flinched violently, her fingers gripping his shirt as if it were her anchor in a sinking world. She stayed there—small, shivering, and silent—her tears blending with the rain as she hid her face deeper into his chest.

Both kidnappers writhed in the mud, whimpering in pain. The masked man holstered his gun, his movements composed and precise. He took out his walkie-talkie.

“I need backup. Another victim located,” he said, his tone clipped, professional. Rain ran down his jaw, dripping onto Jemisha’s skin, cold and startling.

He put the device away and looked down at her. Her feet were bruised and bleeding, her hands trembling like fragile wings. The image of her shielding herself flashed again in his mind, twisting something deep inside him.

She was just a child—terrified, hurt, but still holding on.

The rain didn’t stop. It fell harder, roaring against the earth as if the heavens themselves wept. The man gently stroked her head, his touch careful, reverent, as though she were glass already cracked and held together by nothing but hope.

And then—without warning—her body went limp in his arms.

His breath hitched in alarm as he caught her fully, lifting her against his chest. Even now, he shielded her from the rain, from the storm, from the cruel world she had just escaped.

Time Skip.

Her head throbbed sharply as she opened her eyes. Everything looked blurry white until her vision adjusted, revealing that she was in a hospital.

“You woke up?” the nurse asked, standing beside her in a crisp white uniform.

“Where am I?” Jemisha asked nervously, though deep down she already knew. Her Haneul wasn’t perfect, but she tried.

“You’re in Haneul National University Medical College. I’m your nurse—don’t be worried, it’s all fine now,” the woman reassured gently.

But Jemisha couldn’t trust her. Her weary eyes followed as a male doctor stepped in, speaking softly to the nurse before sitting beside her. He took her hand to check her pulse, but something inside her triggered. She quickly pulled her hand back, eyes alert, her body trembling slightly in distrust.

“I—I—don’t nee—need you to treat me,” Jemisha stammered, her voice fragile but firm. She moved backward on the white hospital bed, every muscle tense, until her eyes fell on the figure who had just stepped in—the same tall man who had protected her in the rain.

He wore a black uniform, cap, and vest. He looked like a well-built soldier, but not a common one—more like a SWAT or special force operative.

“If you don’t mind, send a female doctor,” he said, his voice calm, commanding, and yet respectful.

The doctor nodded silently and left the room.

“Please leave us alone,” the man said next, this time to the nurse. She hesitated, wary, but obeyed.

Jemisha looked at him. He still wore the mask, but his eyes—his eyes gave away his identity. They were the same ones she had seen under the thunder-lit sky. Now, in the sterile brightness of the hospital room, she could see them more clearly.

Both eyes were different. One was monolid, the other not. One looked like a dragon’s—cold, sharp, capable of burning a city bleeding dry. The other was full and gentle, kissed by the heavens themselves, holding galaxies and the most beautiful stars of love. One so dangerous it could make your knees weak and trembling, while the other so tender and vulnerable you’d lay down your life to protect it willingly.

The most beautiful part—a small mole resting beneath one eye, as if God Himself had placed a kiss there, the perfect final touch to His finest creation.

Jemisha was mesmerized until his voice brought her back—an ocean-deep tone that could sound as warm as gentle waves or as haunting as the depths of a storm. The duality he held.

“I need to speak to you regarding what happened,” he said in English, as if already knowing she would be most comfortable with it. “If you wish to have a female officer, we can also go with that.”

“It’s fine,” she whispered, barely audible. “You can ask.” She lowered her head, holding her own hands and staring at them.

“Hmm.” He nodded once. “Are you from Handeul Country?”

She shook her head.

The question was necessary—her features could belong to many ethnicities, including Handeul. Her face was oval, her skin fair and rosy. Her straight, long hair framed her soft features. She wasn’t chubby nor thin—just healthy, her body still young and growing. Her glass skin, her pink lips, her delicate face—all gave the illusion of a Handeul native.

Only her eyes gave her away. Almond-shaped with thick dark lashes casting shadows like the night sky, her pupils were deep brown—almost black. Her eyes were mirrors to her soul, so expressive they betrayed every flicker of thought and emotion.

“Do any of your parents belong to Handeul Country?” he asked.

She shook her head again, making him slightly surprised. Even he thought she looked at least half Handeul.

“Where are you from?” he asked gently. “Your name and age, so we can contact your parents.”

“I am from Inaya. I don’t have parents—I am an orphan,” she said, her voice trembling with sadness.

“Then how did you come to Handeul? Were you kidnapped all the way from Inaya?” he asked, brows furrowing.

“I came here to study. I got a scholarship and admission in Handeul National University for the science stream,” she answered, her head still bowed.

He was taken aback but didn’t show it.

“How long have you been living here?” he continued.

“It was my first day. I got kidnapped from the airport taxi stand,” she said quietly.

His stomach twisted at her words, anger and pity tightening in his chest. The world had been cruel—so cruel—to such an innocent child who had come only to study.

By that time, the female doctor returned, making him pause his questioning. He was about to leave, but Jemisha’s soft voice stopped him.

“Please don’t go,” she said. “I am afraid of needles.”

Her voice sounded like a plea. His eyes softened with sympathy as he sat beside her again.

The doctor prepared the syringe to draw blood—to test if she had been drugged with anything harmful or exposed to infection. Jemisha tensed up, closing her eyes in fear, her throat dry.

“Don’t worry, it won’t take long,” the doctor reassured.

But she couldn’t calm down. Seeing her distress, he quietly offered his hand.

“Hold onto me,” he said.

“But…” Jemisha hesitated.

“It’s alright,” he said again, reassuringly.

It wasn’t that Jemisha had ever trusted a man—let alone a stranger. She was always wary, always walking on eggshells. But something about him ignited both warmth and confusion inside her. Nervousness and calmness collided within her chest. Her focus blurred—not on the pain, but on his presence.

It was as if she were being pulled by a magnet. The kind of pull only the moon had ever had on her before.

She held onto him. His skin felt soft, like rose petals, yet his hand was strong—solid enough to break bricks. The doctor drew the blood, and Jemisha finally let go, opening her eyes.

The doctor checked her pulse, her forehead, asked a few more questions, and then left.

“You’re weak. Try to sleep for now,” he said softly, standing. “I’m waiting outside—call me if you need me.”

He patted her head gently, like one would a child they wanted to protect.

Her throat tightened at his touch; every atom in her body felt the electric reaction—anions and cations colliding in unknown chemistry. A strange, foreign warmth stirred within her—something she herself did not yet understand.

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