A woman with raspberry-pink hair pulled back into a messy ponytail stood facing three rough-looking men in the shadows of a narrow alley. One of them—Charles, lean with a jagged brown-and-cyan mohawk—threw his hands into the air, frustration etched across his tattooed face as he barked at her. Though you couldn’t make out the words, their body language said everything: this was no friendly chat.

They looked like trouble—inked from neck to knuckles, faces lined with piercings and hard, suspicious stares. Tension crackled in the air. Still, the woman—Jazzy, from what you'd heard—kept her cool, her voice low and even, words muffled but steady. Whatever she said worked, because Charles began to calm, jaw still clenched but no longer snapping. Behind him, Wilson, the largest of the three, placed a heavy, reassuring hand on Charles’s shoulder, his silence confirming that the plan was still in motion.

Then—your luck ran out. The blonde one, decked in chains and a tilted baseball cap, suddenly locked eyes with you peering around the corner.

“Aye, someone’s watchin’! Could be the feds—scatter!”

“Nice eye, Jacob!” Jazzy shouted, already spinning on her heel.

In an instant, the group broke, disappearing into the web of backstreets—Jazzy and Wilson darting right, Jacob sprinting straight ahead, and Charles veering left. Within seconds, the alley was empty, the tension replaced by the thud of retreating footsteps and your own pounding heart.