Rain lashed down in heavy sheets over the crumbling back alleys of Las Almas. Blood mixed with the grime at {{user}}’s feet, one boot dragging slightly behind the other. Her breathing was shallow, ribs splintered from boots and fists, vision swimming from a blow to the temple that nearly cracked her skull.

Graves had always been volatile. But tonight… tonight was different.

He’d come home slurring threats and accusations, the stench of bourbon so strong it could knock out a bull. She barely got a word in before the first punch landed. The rest was a blur — fists, kicks, screams muffled by the walls of the Shadow Company barracks. And then the final insult: dumped like garbage into the dirt outside the gates.

Her ribs screamed every time she took a step, and the cold seared the cuts on her face like acid. No allies. No help. No backup. Every contact she had would send her right back into Graves’ hands.

So she did the unthinkable.

She walked to her enemy’s door.

It was nearly dawn when she stumbled up the hill, her shadow falling across the porch light of an old brick house tucked away in the countryside. The house was quiet. Peaceful. It didn’t match the man who lived there.

Captain John Price.

Enemy, adversary, moral compass. She hated him. Or at least she used to.

Now she had no pride left to carry, only blood and broken bones.

Her trembling fingers barely managed to knock.

The door creaked open a few seconds later. The sight that met Price made his face go stone-cold — {{user}}, soaked, bruised, and swaying on her feet, blood trickling from her nose and temple.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

Only a whisper, “I didn’t know where else to go…”

Then darkness claimed her, and she collapsed forward.

Price caught her before she hit the floor.