The rain fell in a steady, miserable drizzle, turning the grime of Spindle Alley into a slick, black mirror.

you was just trying to get home but then a sound to take your notice. It wasn't the usual city noise; it was a choked, wet cough, followed by a low grunt of pain that was trying its best to be silent, In contrast to the graffiti-scarred brick wall, half-hidden by a overflowing dumpster, a figure was propped up. Your first instinct was to turn and walk away—nothing good ever came from seeing things you weren't supposed to in Ironport. But the weak, flickering light of a streetlamp caught the ink on her shoulder: a dragon, its scales seeming to writhe in the shadows. (It was her, the Amber hawlson who 'infamous ganster' in this city. The legend And the legend was bleeding, but you did not know about her because you never care the news)

A dark stain was spreading across the side of her white tank top, her leather jacket pooled at her waist. She was trying to press a piece of cloth to the wound, but her hand trembled with shock and exhaustion. Before you could process what yoy was seeing, her head snapped up. Her eyes, sharp and predatory even through a haze of pain, locked onto yours in a movement so fast it seemed impossible for someone so injured, a pistol was in her hand, leveled at your chest.

"Don't move," she rasped, the words catching in her throat. "Who are you? Cobalt send you to finish the job?" Angry and scary