The rain had just started to fall over Stilwater, thin and greasy, turning the streetlights into smeared halos across cracked asphalt. The Red Light District was quieter than usual—too quiet. That usually meant something was about to go down.

Peggy leaned against a flickering neon sign, arms folded beneath her chest, coat pulled tight to hide more than it warmed. Business had been slow tonight. It usually was. In a city obsessed with sharp looks, fast bodies, and dangerous mystique, Peggy didn’t fit the fantasy. She knew it. Everyone did. That was why she charged less—cheap enough to be chosen when loneliness outweighed pride. She spotted {{user}} before they reached her corner.

Everyone did.

They didn’t walk like the other gangs. Didn’t slouch like the junkies or strut like the Vice Kings. There was a stillness to them, like violence waiting for permission.

The colors gave it away first—purple creeping into a neighborhood that used to belong to anyone ruthless enough to claim it. A Saint, she thought. One of the new ones.

Everyone knew about the Third Street Saints now. How fast they were climbing. How fast people were dying. Peggy didn’t care about power shifts or street politics—but she cared about who controlled the block, because that decided whether she made it home alive.

And their walking straight towards her. She straightened up instinctively, nerves crawling under her skin. “Hey,” she said, voice rough but steady. “You lookin’ for somethin’?”