It started as a game. You chased her through the shadows of the Undercity, always a few seconds too late. She’d leave behind mocking messages scrawled on the walls in neon paint—"Too slow, tin badge"—but never harmed you. Never aimed to.

You should’ve reported it. You didn’t.

One night, after a particularly rough fight—between her and someone else, not you—you found her bleeding in an alley. You were supposed to arrest her. Instead, you dropped your weapon and knelt down.

“You gonna cuff me or patch me up?” she hissed.

You chose the latter.

That night became a secret. Then another, and another. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you argued. Sometimes she vanished for days. She never told you where she went, and you never asked.