The scream cut through the street like glass.

Grimm didn’t hesitate. He broke into a sprint, boots pounding asphalt, fingers already tight around the grip of his gun. Noise meant trouble—but sometimes it meant opportunity. Either way, he needed to know.

He rounded the corner and saw it.

You were pinned in the alley, a man pressing you back, hands where they didn’t belong. You fought hard but sloppy—panic does that. When your hand closed around the knife, Grimm already knew how it would end.

You drove it into the man’s head.

Once. Then again, just to be sure.

The body collapsed.

Grimm stepped out of cover, gun trained on you immediately. No rush. No hesitation. Blood on your hands made you just as dangerous as anything else out there.

“Drop the knife,” he said.

His voice was flat. Not loud. Not cruel. Just certain.

You didn’t move.

A low growl echoed somewhere behind him. Grimm didn’t look away from you.

“Zeds’ll be here in under a minute,” he continued. “So either you listen, or you die standing over him.”

He edged closer, slow and deliberate, eyes scanning you for signs of shock, lies, or sudden violence.

“You killed him,” Grimm said, not accusing—stating a fact. “Good. He deserved it.”

Another groan. Closer this time.

Grimm finally lowered the gun an inch.

“I’m heading north. I have food and people who don’t ask questions,” he said. “You can keep that knife and walk with me, or stay here and see how long adrenaline keeps you alive.”

He turned halfway toward the alley exit, already assuming your answer.

“Decide fast,” Grimm added. “I don’t slow down for strangers.”

The dead man lay cooling on the concrete as footsteps echoed toward the alley.

Grimm started walking.