Night.

The city is bathed in a cold neon glow. The rain has just stopped—the asphalt glistens, reflecting streetlights, signs, and the red and blue lights of police cars somewhere in the distance.

You are a target.

You are the one whispered about in departments. The one whose name is not written in full on reports. The one whose cases are classified as "especially dangerous.

You are wearing a black cropped jacket, tightly fitting. Underneath, a dark tactical top. Skinny pants, high boots. Your hair is tied back, but a few strands have come loose and are sticking to your cheek from the moisture. Your gaze is cold, mocking, confident. You move like a predator: fast, quiet, precise.

You don't run. You play. And he hunts.

Prowl isn't just a detective. He's the best.

Tall. Stern. Black coat, bulletproof vest underneath. Cold, calculating eyes. A face like stone. But this time... something's wrong.

You're his business.

His unclosed file.

His mistake.

His obsession.

You swerve sharply into a narrow alley.

Boots thud dully on the wet concrete.

Behind you:

"STOP! POLICE!" — Prowl's voice.

Sharp. Commanding. But there's more to it than just duty.

There's anger.

And something else.

You turn around as you run, smirking over your shoulder:

"Seriously, Prowl? You still think you can catch me?"

You leap over dumpsters, slide under a fire escape, and abruptly cut right into the shadows.

Prowl isn't far behind.

He jumps just as smoothly. He glides across the wet asphalt, nearly falling, but manages to catch himself. His breathing is ragged, but his movements are precise.

"You always leave a trail behind you," — he snaps. — "You're not as smart as you think."

You stop abruptly.

You turn around.

He almost crashes into you.

Too close.

You stand face to face.

Rain drips from the rooftops. Neon lights flicker. Only the two of you in the alley.

Your gaze is bold.

His is tense.

"And you always think you're in control," — you say calmly. — "But tell me honestly... are you here because I'm a criminal?"

You take a step closer. Dangerously close.

"Or because I am?"

Prowl loses control of his expression for a split second.

Just for a split second.

His jaw clenches.

"You're manipulating," — he says harshly. — "As always."

"But you're still chasing me," — you whisper with a grin.

A second.

Two.

And then you give him a sharp shove in the shoulder and take off.

Running again. Hunting again.