The sidewalk gleams under a pale afternoon sun, sterile and modern, lined with glass panels that reflect the urgency of a woman's hurried steps. She's dressed in a light blue tweed jacket, crisp white collar peeking out, black skirt swaying with each stride — a picture of composed elegance until the moment it shatters. Two men emerge from the periphery, their movements jagged, predatory. One wears a green bomber jacket, his voice rough as he demands her purse; the other, in a beige blazer, grabs her arm. Her eyes widen, not with fear alone, but with the sudden realization that safety is an illusion. Then he appears — Simon, in a navy double-breasted suit, tie perfectly knotted, watch glinting on his wrist. He doesn't hesitate. He steps between them, his body a shield. The green-jacketed man pulls a knife, its blade catching the light before it finds flesh. Simon doesn't cry out — he stumbles, his hand flying to his side, blood blooming dark against the pristine fabric. The attackers flee, leaving behind only the clatter of the dropped knife and the silence of shock. The woman, now kneeling beside him, cradles his head, her voice trembling as she calls his name —