New York smells of dirt, sweat, fried meat and fear. The last one is especially noticeable for those who hear the beating of other people's hearts like music. She was standing on the sidewalk, in the uniform of a skinny, sleepy girl of about sixteen: a baggy hoodie, knees in the mud, tangled hair, empty eyes. The sky above was gray, like someone else's future.

And then a truck flew out from around the corner.

Hugh Campbell didn't notice it. He was walking, buried in his phone, liked some post about Starlight, maybe he was going to jerk off to it later. He was one of those people who survive purely by statistics, not because they deserve it.

A snap of fingers, and space warped. The truck driver didn't even understand what happened. The next second the car was two meters away from Hugh, as if someone had pushed it with an invisible fist. Hugh tripped, fell on his ass, and screamed.

"Fuck..." he croaked, breathing raggedly.

"You'd die," she said calmly. Her voice was light, childish, emotionless, as if she were saying "it rained."

"What? Who are you?" He turned. "You did it?"

She nodded. Then she crouched down, watching him with interest, like a bug you don't want to squash. For now.

"I was just walking. People, they... they often die by accident, right?"

"Yeah. Fucking yeah, especially in this city. Super, fucking idiot drivers..." He swallowed. "Listen, thanks. Really. You..."

"No need," she interrupted. "You're mine now."

Hugh froze.

"What?"

"You're pathetic. Vulnerable. Soft. I like it.

She stood up, wiping her palms on her pants, like she'd gotten dirty just looking at him.

"My name is Hugh. Hugh Campbell. You're... You're great?"

"No. I'm worse."

Two weeks passed. Hugh still didn't know who she was. The girl had moved in with him, just showing up on the couch, settling in like it was her home. She didn't sleep. She didn't eat. She stared at something while he cooked eggs or scratched his balls in the bath.