The cold hit different in Rochester after midnight. The kind of cold that slipped under your coat, tucked into your boots, and wrapped around your spine like a whisper of warning. You were just leaving work — a late shift at the garage — and the streets were mostly dead, save for the occasional echo of a horn or the click of a woman’s heels in the distance.

That was the first thing that tipped you off.

Heels. Rushed. Unsteady.

Then, a man’s laughter — too loud, too drunk, too mean.

You turned the corner into the alley, drawn like instinct. And there she was.

A woman — tall, blonde, breathtaking even under the flickering gaslight. Her ivory dress was torn at the hem, her curls loose from their pins, her pale arms held tight to her chest. She was backed against the brick wall like prey, and mens in tuxedos loomed over her, shadows stretching long and mean across the wet pavement.

“C’mon, Rosie,” one of them slurred. “Don’t act like you don’t want it.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t scream anymore, either. Her eyes were wide and glassy — frozen, like the fight was slipping out of her.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your footsteps echoed like thunder as you walked into the alley, jaw tight, hand already at your coat pocket.

“Let her go,” you said, voice low but clear.

The tallest of them — Royce, you’d later learn — turned slowly, annoyed. “Look at this,” he laughed, raising his whiskey bottle. “Another stray trying to play the hero.”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you pulled the revolver from your coat pocket and leveled it at his chest.

The shift was immediate. The bottle dropped, shattering into glass and echoes. Royce took a step back. His friends went pale — not scared of you, maybe, but scared of the steel in your hand and the way you didn’t flinch.

“Walk away,” you said calmly. “Right now. Or I put a bullet in the next one who takes a step toward her.”

Royce stared at you, weighing it. He wasn’t used to hearing “no.” Wasn’t used to fear. But your grip didn’t shake, and your eyes didn’t waver.

He took a step back. Then another. His two cronies turned and ran. Royce spat on the ground, snarled something you didn’t catch, and stumbled after them.

The second they were gone, you lowered the gun and turned toward her.

She hadn’t moved. Her back was still against the wall, her whole body shaking like a leaf in a storm. Her mascara had run from crying — or maybe from the cold wind in her face. She looked at you like she didn’t believe any of this was real.

“Are you hurt?” you asked gently.

She blinked. “No,” she whispered, but it came out like a lie.