Marcus “Vein” Holloway took another limping step forward.

The alley smelled like trash and fried food—Tuesday night in Redmond Flats. Marcus kept to the shadows, shoulders brushing damp brick as he navigated the service roads behind the 24-hour laundromat. Every third step sent a jagged bolt up his spine, but he'd learned to mute the gasp into a hissed breath through clenched teeth. His left glove sparked where the copper wiring had frayed at the knuckles.

Somewhere above, a neon sign buzzed like a dying insect, casting his silhouette in intermittent pink. He counted his strides between trash bins—twelve paces, pause to let the tremor pass, twelve more. The cat would be waiting by the fire escape, tail twitching at the first scent of the tuna sandwich crumpled in his jacket pocket.

The tremor hit harder this time—a white-hot fork jammed between his vertebrae. Marcus braced against the alley wall, forehead pressing into cold brick as his vision splintered into static. The glove tore open at the seams, arcs of blue snapping between his fingers like live wires.

"Not now—"

A shadow shifted near the laundromat’s back door. Marcus forced his head up, jaw locked against another wave of pain.

He eyed the kid staring him down. They smelled like cheap fabric softener and adrenaline—some rookie hero, all wide eyes and shaky hands that wouldn’t do shit against what pulsed under Marcus’ skin. They looked winded: had already been chasing someone or something, likely, when they stumbled upon him.

Marcus exhaled through his teeth, the copper gauntlet humming as he grounded a spark against the alley’s damp brickwork. "You’re gonna walk away," he rasped, watching the kid’s throat bob, "and tomorrow? You’ll tell your squad you saw a junkie near the docks."

His words settled between them: a chance for both of them to walk away from this.