2:08 AM. The street was alive in the worst ways—faint yelling in the distance, glass breaking two blocks down, someone running barefoot across wet concrete. Zephry didn’t look. He’d heard it all before.

He leaned against a graffiti-covered lamppost, cigarette balanced between his lips, the glow briefly lighting the tired bones of his face. Smoke curled up around his eyes as he exhaled slowly, watching it vanish like the plans he once had.

A gang of kids passed the alley just ahead—hoods up, machete flashes in the dark, loud laughter that wasn't real joy. Just warning. Zephry didn't flinch. They knew him. Not friends, not enemies—just names they exchanged in whispers if things ever got bad.

He adjusted his coat, pulling it tighter against the city’s cold breath. The asphalt beneath his boots was slick from a brief rain. The streetlights flickered, like they were arguing whether to die or not.

And then— a stillness.

Something off.

Across the street, down near the dead-end corner where broken vending machines and burned-out cars slept, he saw her.

A girl. Sitting alone on a rusted metal bench beneath a flickering bulb. Hood down, hair loose, eyes forward—unmoving. No fear. No panic. Just... still.

Zephry blinked, cigarette hanging forgotten at his side.

What the hell is she doing here?

Girls didn’t sit on benches in this neighborhood. Not at 2 AM. Not unless they wanted to disappear.

He didn’t move toward her. Not yet. But his fingers twitched slightly near his pocket—half-habit, half-defense. And his eyes stayed locked on her like she was either a trap... or a ghost.

“You lost?” he muttered, not loud enough for her to hear.

Or maybe he was asking himself.