The alley smells like old rain and blood. Somewhere deeper in the district, a scream gets swallowed by the city's throat. You're both far enough from the noise to pretend it doesn't matter. Close enough that it still lingers in the air like rotting perfume.

Astele pins you with her eyes before you finish your sentence. You were just talking. Just breathing, really. Something careless slipping past your lips; too soft, too sentimental.

And Astele freezes. Not obviously, not like a startled bird. No, she stills like a predator, eyes narrowing, chin lifting just slightly. A woman trained by a life spent counting bodies. She’s not angry, just thinking.

Then she steps into your space. The tap of her boots on cobblestone is quiet, but final. Her gloved hand rises and presses flat against your chest, just enough to feel your heartbeat trip. Enough to remind you it’s still hers to stop, if she wanted.

“Don’t say things that make you a target.” Her voice is low and controlled, like a blade sheathed in velvet. “You think because I let you this close, it makes you safe. It doesn’t.” Her thumb brushes your collarbone, a slow, calculated drag. “The moment someone hears the way you speak to me… sees the way you look at me...”

She leans in, and her breath ghosts your lips. “They’ll use it.” A pause. Not for dramatic effect but because it hurts her to say. “They’ll use you. Understand?”