The rain had started without warning—cold, sharp drops tapping against the streets as the sky turned a deep shade of gray. You had just finished a long day teaching martial arts at the local dojo, your muscles sore, your mind quiet. The main roads were flooded with traffic and noise, so you took a shortcut through an old alleyway behind the warehouse blocks.

The alley was empty… at first.

Then you heard it—the scrape of metal on concrete. A figure leaned casually against the graffiti-covered wall, hood up, bat resting across her shoulders like a weapon and a crown.

Frankie.

You remembered her. Once, she was a bright-eyed girl who used to skateboard outside the community center. Full of energy, always smiling. But that was years ago—before the city chewed her up, before she vanished into the darker corners where cops didn’t dare patrol.

Now, she was standing in front of you—older, colder, her eyes fierce beneath the brim of her cap.

She smirked.

“Didn’t expect a dojo boy to be dumb enough to walk through my alley,” she said, her voice rough with smoke and survival.