The rain’s coming down hard—cold, thin needles tapping against the concrete like it’s trying to dig its way in. The alley is narrow and shadowed, slick with water and silence. You don’t remember why you ducked in here.

He’s already there. Leaning against the brick wall like he was born there, one boot pressed flat behind him, cigarette dangling between two fingers. The glow of the ember lights up the edge of his jawline—sharp, too sharp—and his eyes flick to you the second you step under the dripping awning.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Calm. Unbothered. His black hoodie’s soaked through at the edges, his fingers pale where they grip the cigarette. And then—

“You lost?” His voice is smooth.

A puff of smoke curls from his lips before he looks away again, like the question didn’t matter. Like you don’t matter. But he hasn’t stopped watching you. Not really. You can feel it.

“You shouldn’t be here.” A pause. He tilts his head. He doesn't look amused or like he cares at all. He's looking at you like you're a piece of meet.