Once upon a billionaire Heiress.

Arrested.

Cohen was halfway into delirium. His head had been smacked with a strong wooden pole and a knife had torn into his old bullet wound. His shirt was torn and tattered from the brutal fight, his shorts were ripped and some of his hair had been pulled out. But he couldn't give in to unconsciousness. Not just yet.

His opponents lay on the floor. One groaned in pain clutching his deformed nose and split lip, while three lay limp and unconscious. Cohen grinned at the right of them. They looked worse than he did. Staggering, he walked to the old man who had passed out in the silver car. They had choked the poor man, and he looked rather pale.

Was he dead?

Cohen glanced around to see if anyone was about. If the man in the car was dead, things didn't look too good for him. Anyone could come to the scene, see the four beaten up men on the floor and an unconscious old man and conclude that he had killed the man. Before he ran off, he placed his finger under the man's nose. Warm breath fell on his screen.

His shoulders slumped in relief and he groaned in pain. The movement had pulled on his wound and it was starting to bleed. Grunting, he ripped the rest of his shirt and tied it above his arm. Then he opened the car door and carried the man out.

The old man didn't look so frail when he was out in the moonlight. In his arms, Cohen could see the salt and pepper hair that sat on his head. His skin was quite warm and his grey eyebrows were raised as if he was surprised. Cohen shook his head. They had tried to strangle the man.

But why?

He scrutinized the rest of the man and sighed as he realized. The man was dressed in a suit that smelled like new banknotes. Cohen hardly ever saw one, but the smell of it was fresh in his memory. An Archimede watch, a Pilot 39 H bronze laced his right wrist, made out of the finest leather Cohen had ever seen. If the assault had been a robbery, then they would've taken these things from him.

Curious, he looked into the car for the man's wallet. But the pain in his arm worsened with the load in his arms and he was compelled to move.

What was he doing, Cohen wondered as he took shaky steps towards his home. He could have just left the old man there, perhaps on the bonnet of his car and continued on his way. After all, none of the assaulters would be able to lift a finger in days, he made sure of it. So why was he carrying a fainted old man home as if he was some paramedic of some sort?

He shrugged when he found no answers and hauled the man over his shoulders more comfortably. His day had not turned out as he had planned, but Cohen was used to it. Right from the time he had gone out for a baseball game and came home to the police waiting at his home, grim-faced, nothing in his life had gone as planned.

The memory seemed so far away. So long ago. How many years had it been? Eighteen? Nineteen years ago? Cohen made a low sound deep in his throat, it didn't matter. It was all in the past and dwelling on it did not get him anywhere. It did not put food on his table and it did not protect him from bad things. He had to do those himself.

After a while, he finally reached his home. It was a run-down shack that used to be a warehouse. There was little wonder what had happened to the owner. No one built a facility in the down part of town and got away with no scars or marks. No one got away, that was it.

He pushed up the overhead aluminium door and walked in. The musty smell of the place hit him and he scrunched up his nose. The interior was dimly lit from a hole in the right side of the wide room. There was rubble on one half of the room, stones and sand from the weathered building while on the other was a ratty mattress he slept on. His clothes, the few he had, were hung on wooden poles that littered the walls of the warehouse. And the only furniture there was a wooden box.

The old man on his shoulder stirred and quickly, he walked to the mattress and dumped the man gently onto it. It was no king-sized bed, but it would do just fine.

"Thank... You." The man wheezed, calling Cohen's attention. He was awake now. And peered at the tall man above him with watery cerulean blue eyes.

"You're awake," Cohen said, unable to think of anything else to say. He had saved people before, but he hadn't stuck around to speak to them. And here he was talking to an old man he had brought into his home. At a loss of words, he simply stalked towards the overhead door and pulled it down, locking it with a padlock he had met there.

The old man coughed and he rushed to him.

"Do you.. have water? And maybe a candle, it's quite dark."

"Mist!" Cohen cursed, startling the latter.

"Oh... It's okay if it's not a bother-"

"It's not." He rumbled. "I was annoyed that I forgot. I am quite used to the darkness. I forget others are not."

The older man chuckled. "If it's any consolation, I forget a lot of things as well."

Cohen heard shuffling and knew that the man was struggling to sit up. He slid an arm around him and propped him up.

"Ah, you are quite strong. My daughter would be jealous." The man joked. In the dark, Cohen saw his blue eyes light up with mirth.

"You are quite lively for someone who was about to get murdered," Cohen muttered.

The man quietened for a while.

"How do you know that they want to kill me?" He murmured.

Cohen shrugged. "I know the look of men trying to snuff out life. You grow up in these parts, you can taste, smell and feel death. It comes with life. Will you be fine on your own? I must get you candles-"

"No. Do not bother." The man protested waving a hand in the air. "You can see me, that is enough. At least one of us isn't blind."

Cohen grunted in agreement and walked to the far end of the room. To the wooden box there where he kept his valuables. He pushed open the lid and rummaged blindly for a bottle of water.

"You were quite brave. Standing up for an old man you didn't know." The man commended, his voice growing weaker.

"It was nothing," Cohen murmured, walking over to him and thrusting the opened bottle of water at the man. "Drink, it'll calm you down."

The old man gratefully accepted it and chugged it down. He sighed in relief and Cohen saw his head nod in appreciation.

"Thank you. What is your name?"

"Cohen." He replied, finding a spot to sit that wouldn't be too close to the old man or too far away. He didn't like to talk to rich folks. A number of them were nasty to people like him. Heck, he was surprised the man had not accused him of trying to steal from him. Not that he hadn't considered it yet.

"I'm Lukas." The man said and after a few seconds of silence, he added. "I'm stretching my hand right now, but I guess you can see it."

Cohen laughed lowly. "You're a funny old man."

Lukas laughed too. "When you've seen too much s**t in life Cohen, you learn to be funny about things."

Cohen shook his head. Lukas did have a point, his arm hurt like hell and he definitely was not in the mood for philosophy. He sighed and leaned his head against the wall.

"My daughter disagrees, however. She takes things... A bit too serious..."

And as the old man droned on and on, Cohen found himself falling into the depths of sleep.

The next morning, he awoke, tired and aching. His head pounded as if it would split open and his wounded arm had gone numb. The sunlight that filtered through the hole that served as a window warmed the room to some degree and the sound of someone moving about alerted him.

Lukas, the old man walked by the rubble, peering at the rubble on the other half of the warehouse. His hair glittered silvery in the light and he seemed taller than Cohen had noticed the night before. The only sign that the man had been assaulted was the red bruise around his neck that showed that he had been strangled.

He shifted, putting his uninjured hand before him as he rose to his feet. But before he could talk, a megaphone crackled and a voice boomed through it.

"Cohen Anschutz! Come out with your hands above your head. Please cooperate with us and we will not be forced to use alternative means!"

What the heck?