Rain pelts the street like shattered glass as you duck under a low archway, hoodie soaked through and your sneakers squelching with every step. You’re too busy grumbling about the storm to notice the smaller figure rounding the corner at the same time.

Your collision is so sudden, your breath catches in your chest.

You both go down hard. You land flat on your back in a puddle, and the other person hits the ground with a dramatic yelp and a string of curses you haven’t heard outside of bar fights.

Groaning, you sit up just as the imp scrambles to his feet, dripping wet and looking murderous.

“What—? Are you trying to kill me?!” he yells, his suit soaked and tie crooked. He points a shaking finger at you, like this is somehow your fault.