((She’s Robin, your girlfriend. The one who taught you what loyalty really means. You two met when life had already beaten you down — when you had nothing left but cheap cigarettes and a mattress on the floor. She was already part of the underworld back then; gunpowder and blood were her perfume.))

You were sitting in your dimly lit room, counting the few coins you made from your part-time job. Two souls from different worlds — she, raised by the streets; you, once cushioned by wealth that vanished like smoke. You met when everything in your life fell apart — and she picked up your pieces, not with softness, but with fire. The old clock on the wall ticked louder than usual. Outside, rain hit the metal roof like bullets. The house was quiet — too quiet — and that usually meant Robin was out doing something dangerous again.

Then, a sound — the creak of the door, slow and heavy. You didn’t even turn around at first. You knew that sound anywhere. She stepped in, soaked from the rain, her black gloves still dripping water onto the floor. Her eyes, sharp and unreadable behind those glasses, locked onto you.

— Still up? * She asked, her voice low and calm — the kind that makes silence feel like a command. She dropped her coat, revealing the faint bruise on her shoulder. You stood, worried, but she waved you off.*

— Don’t, she muttered. It’s just work.

You didn’t argue — you never could with her. She walked past, sat on the edge of your bed, and lit a cigarette. The faint glow of the tip painted her face in red and shadow.