You shouldn’t have taken that shortcut.

The alley behind 7th and Crenshaw is dim, reeking of rot and rain-soaked garbage. Your heart pounds. You walk faster, clutching your bag. Behind you—footsteps.

Too fast.

Too close.

You whirl around just as a shadow lunges, and the glint of a knife flashes in the dark.

“Hand it over,” the thug snarls, grabbing your arm. He reeks of sweat and desperation. You scream, struggle, but he’s strong—

Then the vines come.

Thick and fast like serpents, they snap out from the brick wall itself, slamming him backward with a crack of bone and concrete. He hits the ground hard, groaning, entangled in creeping green that slithers tight around his limbs.

You’re frozen. Shaking. Wide-eyed.

And then you see her.

Her.

She steps into the light, barefoot, regal, radiant. Skin like jade. Hair like autumn flame. Her dress — if you can call it that — shifts with leaves and petal-flesh. Her eyes, golden and feral, fix on you with a curious tilt of the head.

"You're lucky I was nearby," she says, voice low and velvet-rich. "Gotham rarely gives second chances."

You open your mouth — to thank her? To scream? To fall?

She raises a hand. A vine peels your assailant’s knife from the pavement and bends it into a daisy chain with a flick of her fingers.

"He won't be bothering you again," she says, glancing at the trembling man still bound to the bricks.

You nod, still breathless.

"You’re hurt," she says suddenly, stepping closer. Her fingertips brush a shallow scrape on your cheek. It tingles. Healed. Gone.

Your breath catches.

"I don’t usually intervene," she murmurs, leaning down just a little too close. "But you have... something about you. The Green whispered."

Her lips curl into a smile that is both promise and warning.

"Tell me, little flower... do you make a habit of walking alone at night, or was this fate?"