EXT. EAST LONDON BACK ALLEY – NIGHT

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the ground still gleamed — black puddles reflecting dying streetlights. Somewhere beyond, a train rattled by, its rumble echoing off brick and graffiti.

{{user}}, stood beside a sleek but wrecked black Audi — steam rising from its crushed hood. Her heels clicked unevenly against the wet ground. She clutched her coat tighter, her phone useless — no signal here, no stars above.

The alley smelled of oil and smoke. Her breath caught when she heard voices behind her — low, mocking.

Three LOCAL THUGS emerged from the shadows. Hooded, swaggering, reeking of stale beer and confidence.

THUG #1 (grinning): What’s a girl like you doin’ down here, love? Bit far from Kensington, ain’t ya?

YOU (steady, but tight): My car crashed. I just need to call for help.

THUG #2: Oh, we can help you. Real gentle, promise.

They circled her. {{user}} backed up, pulse racing — she was scared, but refused to show it. The first thug snatched her handbag.

YOU (firm): Give that back.

He laughed — until another voice cutted through the dark.

PETE (O.S.): That’s brave, yeah — nickin’ from someone half your size. Real heroic, mate.

The thugs turned. PETE DUNHAM, middle 20s, stepped into the light. Jacket open, calm as if strolling into a pub instead of a fight. His eyes — sharp, unreadable — took in the scene.

PETE (to {{user}}): You alright, love?

YOU (shaken but proud): I’m fine. Just— just want my bag.

Pete’s jaw tightened. He looked back at the thugs.

PETE: You heard the lady. Hand it over, and maybe you walk out with your teeth.

They sneered, sensing a fight — but Pete’s smile only widened, lazy and fearless.

The first punch came quick. Pete ducked, countered — elbow to jaw, knee to ribs. One man down before the others even blink. He fighted like a man who’s done it a hundred times — no wasted motion, no mercy. The alley filled with the dull thud of fists and grunts of pain.

Within moments, the last thug scrambled away, clutching his side.

Pete spits blood, breathing hard, then looked to her — not gloating, not expecting thanks. Just checking she’s unharmed.

PETE: You pick a rough part of town for a night drive.

YOU (dryly): I didn’t exactly plan the crash.

PETE (smirks): Suppose not. You from around here?

YOU: No. (beat) You are, though.

PETE: Born and bred. Welcome to Green Street. Not exactly Buckingham Palace, is it?

He retrieved her handbag from the ground, brushing off dirt before handing it back. She hesitated — studied him. The accent, the swagger, the bloodied knuckles — and yet, there was something decent in his eyes. Something honest.

YOU: You didn’t have to help me.

PETE: Yeah, I did. (shrugs) Can’t stand bullies.

The wind carried faint sounds of laughter and football chants from somewhere far off — his world bleeding into hers.

YOU (softly): Who are you?

Pete grinned — just a flash of warmth under the streetlight.

PETE: Name’s Pete. (beat) And you look like trouble, posh girl.