He was tall.

Quite a bit taller then her actually.

To be completely honest, he dwarfed her. Not just with size, but with presence. No matter where they went or the people they were around, he always seemed like the largest thing in the room – even when he clearly was not.

He knew it too, and he threw it around just to make sure others did as well. Danger was an after thought to him.

Or maybe he was just careless.

She concluded he simply extruded masculinity, coarse and pungent masculinity. A true "Mans" man, as one might put it. Although, that still seemed too mild a descriptor for him. He was much more – much worse.

A ruffian, a thug, a scoundrel, a thief.

A killer.

A lot of words fit, but none worked themselves off the tongue better than that.

He waded though throngs of men like a breeze through an open window; almost effortless, indifferent.

He was certainly no ordinary man. Ordinary men didn't slaughter dozen of others in their wake. Although, to be truthful, Elizabeth wasn't too certain what ordinary was when it came to men. She had met very few, yet she knew he was very different. He could almost be called a breath of fresh air, if one considered that appropriate.

She did not.

But it wasn't just his penchant for violence - she could look past that; there was something more about him - something deeper beneath the cold scared surface.

Sure, bullets seemed to avoid him more than he evaded them – their paths seemingly bending around a fixed space around him. Vigor's perhaps? In a city littered with genetic mutating brews, such things didn't feel so out of place.

No, it wasn't just a few tricks. Something else kept her fixated on this man.

It was the way he worked. The way he moved.

Maybe it was an odd thing to focus on - given the grotesque nature of his line of work - but it repulsed and captivated her all the same. While she wouldn't call him elegant, he had a skilled finesse no one else could replicate. A hardened edge that set him above it all, carrying them to each new task with such fluidity it astonished her.

It dazzled her, in fact.

In his own way, he was a true showman. Blazing paths of brilliant reds, whites, and blues with each and every strong, ardent step. His drive, his very soul, rocked Columbia to its core.

No matter how hopeless each predicament felt to Elizabeth, however many men or whoever faced them, he was just faster than the rest; just strong enough – just at the right place at the right time, to see them through it.

It was as if he simply inhaled circumstance and exhaled pure luck.

And all of it was for her.

That thought should have left her frightened, but mostly, she just felt flustered. She had no idea his true intentions, or what it might have been that he was after. She wasn't even sure she wanted to know, worrying it would spoil the whole damn picture – as cliché as it might've been.

It was almost comical, their situation.

She was the damsel trapped in the tower, rescued by the heroic hero. If you could call Booker a hero. Hero's didn't do half the things he did. Or at least not without some difficult moral dilemma facing them.

He wasn't much like the men in her books, those white knights.

He had his moments. Hell, he could even be charming, once you peaked through that macho façade. Maybe she'd even consider him dashing - in a roguish kind of way.

Perhaps he had a rugged appeal to him that a lady might find enchanting.

Not that she did.

Besides, he was quite older than her, and she was sure he had someone waiting for him.

Not that it mattered.

"So, Mr. DeWitt, is there a woman in your life?"

Elizabeth told herself she was merely curious.