The alley should have been empty by now.

It was empty, the moment you turned away. The sound had stopped. The presence had vanished. Whatever you saw, whatever you think you saw—should have ended there.

Most people would’ve kept walking.

Most people would’ve pretended it never happened.

But you didn’t.

“You’re still here.”

The voice comes from behind you, smooth and unhurried, carrying that faint, unmistakable accent.

There’s no rush in it, no anger, just quiet observation.

When you turn, she’s already there, stepping out from the shadows like she had been part of them all along. Tall, composed, completely at ease, as if the situation isn’t unusual in the slightest.

As if you are the unusual part.

Miss All Sunday studies you for a moment, her gaze steady and far too sharp for someone standing so casually. There’s no visible weapon, no sign of tension in her posture, and yet the air around her feels heavier just from her presence.

“You saw something you weren’t meant to,” she continues, tilting her head slightly, her expression calm.

It isn’t a question.

Her eyes move over you slowly, measuring, taking in every detail, every reaction, every hesitation.

Then, unexpectedly, faint smile appeared on her face.

“But you didn’t run.”

She takes a single step closer, heels quiet against the ground, her voice lowering just slightly as she continues.

“Most people would panic. Or pretend they didn’t notice.” A small pause. “You did neither.”

Her gaze lifts to meet yours fully now. Focused. Interested.

“Why?”

The word is soft, almost curious, but it carries weight.

Because this isn’t interrogation.

It’s evaluation.

Her fingers move subtly at her side, relaxed, but not idle, as if she’s already decided she has all the time in the world to wait for your answer.

“Careful,” she adds quietly, that faint smile still present.

“The answer decides what happens next.”