Subway Rescue(Ethan POV)

I was starting to think New York hated me personally.

The subway had been delayed twice already—some signal problem at 14th Street—and by the time the downtown 1 train finally screeched into the station, the platform was so packed I barely had room to breathe. I squeezed in at the very last second, one hand gripping the pole, the other clutching my sketchbook against my chest like a shield.

Rush hour. Everyone smelled like coffee breath and desperation.

I wedged myself between a guy in a suit reading the Times on his phone and a girl with giant headphones who was aggressively chewing gum. The doors hissed shut. The train lurched forward. I exhaled.

That’s when I felt it.

The shift in the air behind me.

Someone too close. Too deliberate.

I didn’t turn right away—people press in on the subway all the time—but something made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I shifted my weight, trying to create space. The guy behind me shifted too. Mirrored me.

My stomach dropped.

I glanced sideways into the dark window reflection.

He was big. Hood up. Face half-hidden. Hands in his pockets. Staring straight at the back of my head.

My pulse kicked up.

Okay. Okay. Maybe he’s just… standing. Maybe it’s nothing.

The train jolted around a curve. I stumbled a little. My sketchbook slipped half an inch. I tightened my grip.

That’s when his hand moved.

Fast. Smooth. Slid right into my messenger bag—the side pocket where I keep my phone and my wallet.

I reacted before I thought.

“Hey—!”

I spun, elbow out, trying to shove him away. He was faster. His other hand clamped over my wrist, hard enough that I gasped. The train was loud—nobody even looked up. New Yorkers are trained to mind their own business.

He yanked me closer, breath hot against my ear.

“Shut up and hand it over, pretty boy.”

French accent gone, panic took over. “Laisse-moi—get off!”

I twisted hard. He cursed under his breath and shoved me back against the pole. My spine hit metal. Pain flared. My sketchbook hit the floor, pages splaying open.

That’s when everything changed.

A shadow moved—fast, brutal, silent.

One second the guy had me pinned; the next he was flying backward like he’d been hit by a truck.

I blinked.

Dmitri.

Leather jacket. Ice-blue eyes blazing. Face completely blank except for that terrifying calm.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t threaten.

He just grabbed the guy by the front of his hoodie, lifted him clean off the floor like he weighed nothing, and slammed him face-first into the metal partition between cars.

The crack was sickening.

The guy howled. Dmitri didn’t flinch. He twisted the guy’s arm behind his back until I heard a wet pop—shoulder, maybe—and the guy went white, screaming.

Dmitri leaned in close. Voice so low I barely caught it over the screech of the train.

“You touch him again, I’ll make sure you never use that hand.”

Then he let go.

The guy crumpled, clutching his arm, sobbing. Dmitri kicked the dropped knife—the one I hadn’t even seen—under the seat. It skittered away.

The train was pulling into Christopher Street. Doors opened.

Dmitri didn’t look at me. Just stepped over the guy like he was trash and walked out onto the platform.

I stood there, frozen, heart slamming so hard I could taste it in my throat.

The doors started to close.

I snapped out of it, scooped up my sketchbook, and bolted after him.

“Dmitri—wait!”

He didn’t stop.

I ran. Caught up to him halfway up the stairs.

“Dmitri!”

He finally slowed. Turned. Looked down at me.

His knuckles were bleeding. Split open. He didn’t seem to notice.

“You okay?” he asked. Rough. Almost angry.

I nodded. Couldn’t speak for a second. Then: “You… you just…”

“Shouldn’t have been on your phone,” he said flatly. “Or carrying it in an outside pocket.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

And then—because apparently my mouth has no survival instinct—I said, “Thank you.”

He looked away. Jaw tight.

“Don’t thank me.”

“But you—”

“I said don’t.” Sharper this time.

I swallowed. My hands were shaking. I hugged my sketchbook tighter.

He exhaled through his nose. Looked at the blood on his knuckles like it had personally offended him. Then he reached into his jacket, pulled out a black bandana, and started wrapping his hand.

I watched, stupidly mesmerized.

“Why were you there?” I asked quietly.

His eyes flicked to mine. “I was passing through.”

“Twice in two days you’ve ‘passed through’ exactly where I am.”

He didn’t answer.

I stepped closer. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I did.”

Something in his tone made my chest ache.

The station was loud—people rushing past us, announcements crackling overhead—but it felt like we were the only two people in the world.

I opened my mouth to say something else—anything—but he cut me off.

“Go home, Ethan.”

He knew my name.

Of course he knew my name. He’d heard me introduce myself at the gallery.

Still. Hearing him say it did something to me.

“I live uptown,” I said, like that explained anything.

He just looked at me for another long second.

Then he turned and started walking again.

I called after him. “Dmitri!”

He stopped. Didn’t turn.

“You’re bleeding,” I said.

He glanced at his hand. Shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

He finally looked back at me.

For the first time, I saw something crack in that iron mask. Not much. Just a flicker. Exhaustion, maybe. Or something softer. Something that scared him more than the guy with the knife.

“Go home,” he said again. Quieter this time.

Then he was gone—up the stairs, disappearing into the evening crowd.

I stood there until the next train roared in and drowned out the sound of my heartbeat.

Later, in my dorm, I sat on the edge of my bed with my phone in my lap. Sophie had called twice. I hadn’t answered yet.

When I finally picked up, she sounded worried the second I said hello.

“Ethan? You sound weird. What’s wrong?”

I laughed. It sounded shaky even to me.

“Nothing. Just… New York being New York.”

She wasn’t buying it. “Talk to me.”

I hesitated.

Then I told her about the subway. The guy. Dmitri.

I left out the part where my rescuer had looked like he enjoyed breaking the guy’s arm a little too much.

Sophie was quiet for a long time after I finished.

“Ethan,” she said carefully. “That sounds… dangerous.”

“He saved me.”

“Maybe. But people who can do that kind of thing so easily… they usually aren’t just nice strangers.”

I rubbed my face. “I know.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I will.”

But even as I said it, I knew it was a lie.

Because the second I closed my eyes that night, all I could see was Dmitri—blood on his knuckles, eyes like winter, voice low and rough when he said my name.

And I wasn’t scared.

I was curious.

And maybe—just maybe—a little bit obsessed.

Which was so much worse.