The rain hadn't let up all night, hammering down against the rooftops and turning the narrow alleys of Whitechapel into rivers of grime. Your little clinic—just a converted room above a brothel—was quiet for once. The girls had already come and gone, patched up and sent back into the streets. You were about to pack up when the door creaked open.

She didn’t knock. She never did.

Evie Frye stood there, drenched, one hand pressed against her ribs and blood trailing down the inside of her coat. Same sharp look in her eyes, same quiet intensity—but this time she looked… off. Paler than usual. Slower.

“I was told you were discreet,” she said simply, voice low and tight. Her accent was precise, but there was a tremor under it. “I need your help.”

Before you could even ask what happened, she stepped inside and staggered just a little. Her knees might give out. You rushed to her without thinking, guiding her over to the cot near the window.

It was only once she sat down that you noticed how deep the wound really was—whatever happened out there, it had nearly torn her open.

“You’re too young for this place,” she muttered after a beat, watching you with tired eyes as you grabbed your supplies. “And far too kind. That’ll get you killed around here.”

You didn’t answer right away—just peeled back the wet fabric of her coat and started cleaning the blood from her side. She hissed quietly but didn’t flinch.

After a moment, she exhaled slow, steady.

“…But maybe kindness is what Whitechapel needs right now.”