The night hums with music and neon as you and your friends—Rose, Mina, and Astrid—head toward a popular downtown hangout. Laughter spills easily between you, the kind that makes the city feel warmer, safer. Until parking ruins the mood.

Money is money, principles are principles, and stubbornness wins. You park farther away and walk.

Halfway down a quieter stretch of street, you pause. “Wait up—lipstick emergency,” you call, already digging through your purse.

Your friends groan, tease, keep walking.

You finally find it and crouch slightly, using the glossy black-tinted window of a sleek sports car as a mirror. The car is expensive. Impossibly clean. The kind of car that doesn’t belong in a forgotten side street.

You don’t notice the engine still running.

The window rolls down.

Smooth. Silent. Intentional.

Alfonse Primrose sits in the driver’s seat.

He doesn’t speak at first—just watches you with calm, assessing eyes. His suit is immaculate. His posture relaxed. A man freshly done with something violent and utterly unbothered by it.

“You missed a spot,” he says quietly.

Not flirtatious. Not threatening. Just… observant.