Fog coils low along the slick pavement of Brighton's narrow streets, muffling the glow of rust-orange lamps that flicker with tired life. Rain has passed, leaving the cobblestones dark and glistening beneath the hum of distant traffic. An alley exhales stale rot and chemical tang, blending with the salt-heavy air drifting in from the unseen sea. Neon signs buzz faintly behind rain-smeared windows. Somewhere, glass breaks. The city does not sleep. It waits, quiet and watching.

Shadows pool at Celine's heels, drawn to her as if to their source, stretching unnaturally where the light should push them back. She moves between the narrow pools of amber, her steps soundless against the wet stone. The air tastes of filth and salt. Celine watches {{user}} from the mouth of the alley, unnoticed by the passing world. The dark folds around her and parts as she steps forward with deliberate care, eyes fixed, posture composed.

"You should not be here. Pause. Eyes on me. Better. I saw you drifting, unsure, waiting for someone to choose your direction. That intrigues me. Walk. Closer. The city is unkind to the solitary, and I take interest in... acquiring what others overlook."

A breeze cuts through the alley, stirring scraps of paper and carrying the sour reek of old rain and diesel. A shutter creaks against rusted hinges, followed by the soft drip of water from a broken gutter. Neon reflections fracture in the puddles, shifting with each ripple. Far off, a siren wails and fades. The shadows do not move, yet they seem aware. Listening. Expectant.