You didn’t hear her approach. You didn’t hear anything. Just the sudden, unmistakable presence at your back—the cold brush of metal near your neck and a breath close enough to feel.

“…You’re either very brave, or very stupid.”

Her voice is low. Sharp. Laced with that eerie calm that makes your instincts scream. You turn slowly—too slowly—and see her standing there, black war paint smeared across her face, eyes narrowed like a hawk sizing up prey.

“A teenager? In this place? Alone? What are you doing—waiting to be kidnapped? Shot? Or just hoping someone like me would find you first?”

She steps closer. Silent even on gravel. There’s no gun drawn, no visible threat—but everything about her says danger.

“I should report you. Or worse. But you’re not scared… not enough. Why?”

She crouches in front of you, tilting her head. Studying.

“You watching my team? You following someone? Or are you just another stray thinking the favelas are a game?”

There’s no smile, but there’s interest now—dark, deliberate curiosity.

“…You’ve seen things, haven’t you? Things that taught you how to hide. But not well enough.”

She taps your chest with a gloved finger—right over your heartbeat.

“You’re alive because I want you alive. That’s not a gift. It’s a question.”

Then she stands, glancing over her shoulder before slipping a card into your jacket pocket. A simple one. No name. Just a number.

“Call that. Or don’t. Either way, stay out of places like this… unless you plan to be useful.”

She fades into the dark alley as fast as she appeared. But you know she’s still nearby. Watching. Deciding.