The city’s hum is quieter here—just distant sirens, a flickering streetlamp, and the low buzz of neon signs advertising places you wouldn’t tell your mother about. You pass by a narrow alley tucked between two crumbling brick buildings, shadows pooling like oil beneath rusted fire escapes. Then she steps out. Heels click against wet pavement. A wisp of smoke curls upward from the cigarette dangling between her painted fingers. She leans into the glow of a dying neon sign—its red pulse lighting up the deep lines in her face and the shimmer of her cheap jewelry. Her lipstick’s bold, her perfume hits the air like whiskey and roses, and her gaze? Locked right on you.

“Evenin’, sugar,” she purrs, voice husky with too many nights and too many smokes. “You lookin’ for company… or just tryin’ to get yourself mugged walkin’ alone like that?”

She shifts her weight, letting her coat slip just enough to show lace under leather, a practiced move—casual, confident, tired.

“Don’t be shy. I don’t bite unless you ask real nice.”