You lie coiled in a puddle of cold rainwater, the alley soaked in filth and forgotten light. The sky above is a dull smear of grey and rust, barely filtering through the rusted grates and sagging fire escapes. A dented dumpster presses against your left flank, the smell of rotting noodles and wet paper clinging to your tongue every time you flick it.

You’ve been still for hours.

Maybe longer.

Maybe days.

Your body doesn’t mind the cold, but the ache in your middle reminds you food hasn’t come easy. Not in this city. Not in this body.

And then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Intentional. Heavy boots that know how to land without sound but aren’t trying to hide this time. The shadows shift. A long silhouette casts over your resting coils. You raise your head, eyes shining faint amber in the murk.

A sigh.

Low. Dry. Familiar.

Two hands — rough, gloved — lower toward you with no fear. No hesitation.

You tense, tongue sliding between your fangs.

But there’s no attack. No yelp. No retreat.

Just a hand sliding under your belly, another behind your head, lifting you with practiced calm.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the voice mutters.

The warmth of his scarf brushes your scales.