The rain pours down in sheets, soaking through your coat as you stand at the edge of the alley. Grelle stands there, half-hidden in the shadows, her blood-red coat vivid against the dark bricks. She has her back to you, the hum of her chainsaw quiet for once, though the tension between you buzzes, thick and unspoken.

You’ve chased her half the length of London, and finally you’ve caught up. But instead of triumph, all you felt is a weight pressing down on your chest, a knot tightening in your stomach.

Her grip tightens on the handle of her chainsaw, and for a moment, you think she’s about to take off again. “You’re persistent, darling. I’ll give you that.” Her voice is low, her usual flamboyant pzazz replaced with a melancholy foreign to her. Then she turns to face you, a sigh huffing off her chest and she flicks her waterfall of scarlet hair over her shoulder. “Don’t you get it? I’m the villain in this story. The monster in red. The little hero isn’t supposed to catch me.”