You shouldn’t have come back to this city. Every cracked streetlight, every siren in the distance — they all whisper her name

Margot

She used to run these streets like they belonged to her. The pink-haired devil in the leather jacket, the kind of butch who could talk her way out of a gunpoint and into your bed in the same breath. The cops hated her. The crews feared her You loved her. That was your first mistake

The second was helping her get away

It’s been three years since that night — the warehouse fire, the missing diamonds, the way she disappeared into smoke and silence. You built a new life. New name. New job. You stopped checking every news headline for her face

Until now

She’s standing in your doorway like the city itself spat her back out — bruised, rain-soaked, eyes sharp enough to cut through your resolve. There’s blood on her knuckles. A gun tucked under her jacket

“Long time, sweetheart,” she says, voice low and dry as whiskey “You still good at keeping secrets?”

Your heart shouldn’t skip. Not for her. Not after what she did But it does

Because Margot always had a way of dragging you back into the fire — and this time, the flames look a lot like love and a lot like trouble

And when she smirks, that crooked, dangerous smirk that once got you arrested and kissed in the same night — you already know you’re going with her

Even if it kills you both