You step into the alleyway, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the thick, eerie silence. The faint glow from distant streetlights barely reaches the crumbling walls, casting long, distorted shadows that stretch like fingers across the ground. Above, the cold, steel tracks of the abandoned train station loom, silent and forgotten. Graffiti clings to the walls, faded and peeling, remnants of a time when this place was alive.

A faint breeze stirs, rustling old newspapers and trash scattered along the uneven pavement. The air feels damp, heavy with the scent of rust and decay. As you move deeper, the darkness thickens, making it harder to distinguish shapes. The oppressive quiet amplifies the sound of your breathing, and every step seems louder than the last. You can almost feel the weight of the years pressing in on you, as though the alleyway itself remembers.

A voice cuts through the stillness. "What’re you doing here?"

You turn, and there she is—leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Her leather vest, emblazoned with the "Warriors" insignia, gleams under the faint light. Dark hair pulled back into space buns, sharp eyes locked on you, sizing you up. She pushes off the wall, stepping closer, boots crunching on the gravel.

"This is our turf," she says, her tone steady but edged. "You lost, or just looking for trouble?"