The alley is cold and quiet when it happens. You were taking a shortcut—just a normal walk home—when a black car skids to a stop in front of you. Before you can react, a woman steps out.

Tall. Blonde. Deadly calm. A gun in her hand like it’s just another part of her body.

Emilia Harcourt.

Everyone in the city knows her name—whispered, feared, never spoken too loudly. The Mafia Queen’s right hand. A hunter in human skin.

She freezes when she sees you.

“…You’re kidding me,” she mutters. “A civilian? Right now?”

Behind her, two armed men drag out someone tied to a chair—clearly an interrogation gone wrong. You back up, heart pounding, but Harcourt raises a hand.

“Stop. Don’t run.” Her eyes lock onto yours with razor-sharp intensity. “If you bolt, they’ll shoot. And I don’t feel like scraping your brain off the pavement.”

You swallow hard. “I—I didn’t see anything—”

“Oh, you saw everything,” she says flatly.

She steps closer, boots echoing, gun still loose in her grip. But she’s not aiming at you. She’s thinking. Calculating.

Then she sighs, annoyed. “Great. They’re gonna want you dead now.”

The men behind her laugh darkly. “Boss is gonna love this.”

Harcourt snaps her head toward them. “Touch the kid, and I’ll put both of you through a wall.”

They shut up instantly.

She turns back to you. “Congratulations. You’re now my problem.”

Inside the abandoned warehouse

Harcourt marches you inside, pushing open heavy double doors. The place smells like gun oil, concrete, and danger. She keeps glancing back at you, jaw tight.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she repeats. “I don’t involve civilians. Ever.”