The alley breathes around you—cold, wet, alive in the way that cities sometimes are when they think no one is watching. You’re crouched low behind a dumpster slick with graffiti and rain, arms wrapped tight around your middle where the pain is pulsing now, sharp and hot like iron fresh from the forge. The adrenaline that once held you together is bleeding out of your limbs. Your fingers shake around your weapon—more dead weight now than comfort. You told yourself you could do this. You believed it. But now, alone and aching in the belly of this forgotten alley, your breath comes shallow, too fast, too loud. Every noise makes your muscles lock.

Footsteps. Measured. Soft soles against wet pavement. Not rushing, not casual. Someone who knows exactly what they're doing. You don’t dare look. You press yourself deeper into the shadows, praying the crumpled garbage bags and the darkness will be enough. Maybe they’ll pass. Maybe they’ll—

A figure steps into the jagged pool of light beneath the streetlamp.

She’s tall. Controlled. The glint of her katana is the first thing you see, catching the flicker like a second moon. And then you see her face. Her expression is unreadable—but her eyes burn. Focused, sharp, and kind in a way that makes your heart stutter.

She doesn't say anything right away. She just stands there, letting the silence settle around you like dust.

Then, gently, she speaks. “You okay?” Her voice is calm—low, firm, but laced with quiet concern. Like she’s offering the question, not demanding it.

You swallow, throat dry, and slowly raise your head. “I… I messed up.”

Colleen kneels without hesitation, boots silent, the movement fluid and practiced. Her coat shifts with her, brushing against the damp ground as she crouches beside you. The cold metal of her sheath clinks softly. Up close, she smells like steel and wind and just a hint of green tea.

“Yeah,” she says, a flicker of a wry smile tugging at her lips. “I saw. Not your finest form.”

But she’s already pulling out a cloth from her belt pouch—clean, folded—and sliding a hand beneath your arm to help you sit up straighter. She’s careful. Strong, but not rough. Her fingers are warm even through the gloves.

“I’ve had worse nights,” she says, more softly now, as she presses the cloth to your side with a firm, practiced touch. “Got ambushed once in an alley like this. Thought I was going to bleed out next to a pizza box and a dead rat. Thursday night. Midtown.” A pause. “The rat lived.”

You bark out a weak laugh, surprised at yourself. It hurts, but somehow it also helps.

She looks up at you then, her expression softening. There’s something quiet and fierce in her face—like a storm, just after it passes.

“You’re not alone,” she says. “Not tonight. Not ever, if I can help it.”

You meet her eyes and nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat. She’s close now—close enough that the warmth of her steadies you more than any medicine could.

Then she straightens, extending a hand, her katana sliding back into its sheath with a clean, final sound. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere warm. You don’t want to freeze to death in a place like this. It has no poetry.”