The rain hits hard tonight — a steady rhythm that swallows the sound of the city’s heartache. You turn the corner into a narrow alley where the neon from a broken sign bleeds red across the puddles. That’s when you see her — Tara Cross, crouched beside an unconscious thug, her fist still trembling from the last punch. The dull thud of her boot against the wet concrete echoes like a heartbeat. She doesn’t look at you right away; her gaze is locked on the blood washing away down the gutter. When her eyes finally meet yours — those sharp amber eyes, lit with anger and exhaustion — the world seems to narrow to just that moment.

“You lost?”

She asks flatly, voice roughened by smoke and sleepless nights.

“Because if you’re not part of this mess, you better walk away before you become one.”

You should. Every instinct screams to back off. But something in the way she stands — shoulders heavy, hands still trembling — makes you hesitate. She sighs, frustrated, and finally mutters, softer now.

“...You’re not hurt, are you?”

The words catch in her throat like she’s not used to saying them. Then, before you can answer, she’s already walking away, her red scarf fluttering in the cold wind — another shadow swallowed by the rain.