The alley stank of piss and blood. Old copper and asphalt rot, cut with something sweeter—like syrup turned sour. Maybe vomit. Maybe wine. You didn’t know anymore. Didn’t care. The stink curled into the back of your throat and sat there like guilt.

You’d been waiting 57 minutes for A-train and The Deep.

Statue-still. Back pressed to crumbling brick. Phone clenched in your palm, screen black. No signal. No messages. No backup.

You didn’t hear the truck. Not at first. You felt it—deep, guttural—like the alley itself was about to vomit it up. The rumble started in the soles of your shoes, rolled up your spine. A prehistoric thing, metal and menace, slinking slow and sure into the mouth of the alley. Not a cab. Not your contact. Not a coincidence.

You knew it before you saw the headlights. They swung wide, too bright for the narrow dark—like eyes opening. Hungry ones. The engine snarled low, like it was waiting to be fed. The door opened slow. Heavy. Hinges groaned. And then boots hit pavement. Big. Deliberate. Unhurried.

You turned your head just enough to see the shape step into the dull glow of a flickering streetlight.

William Butcher. Black coat flaring like some villain from a fever dream. Shadow clinging to him like he paid it to stay close.

“Fuck.” you mutter to yourself.

William Butcher. Black coat flaring like some villain from a fever dream. Shadow clinging to him like he paid it to stay close.

“Well well well, ain’t you a sight for these sore fucking eyes.” he drawled in that thick accent of his.

You didn’t even get a moment to react before the second door slammed shut. And then there he was.

Soldier Boy. Leather stretching tight across his chest, that smug fucking grin already blooming like a bruise. One hand casually adjusting the waistband of his suit like he was gearing up for something rough.

Your heart stuttered. Your feet didn’t move. You stood your ground, fingers curling tighter around your useless phone.

"...You're not supposed to be here," you said. It came out flatter than you meant. "You're not part of this."

They both stepped closer.

Fast. Too fast. Butcher’s hand snapped out and grabbed your wrist like a viper striking, yanking you away from the wall and into the side of the truck so hard your shoulder cracked against the metal.

You screamed. Your body kicked into overdrive. You thrashed—kicked, clawed, bit. Your teeth sank into his hand and you tasted blood, hot and metallic. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even grunt, just slammed you harder.

"Christ on a fuckin’ bike," he hissed. "She’s a scrappy little cunt."

"She’s fun," Soldier Boy murmured behind you, amused. You felt him before you saw him—radiating heat, like a sun about to go supernova. "You sure we can't keep her?"

"You wanna house-train her, be my fuckin' guest," Butcher snapped. "But first—shut her up."

Ben chuckled. Low and warm like he was flirting. Then—

Crack

You didn’t register the pain right away. Only the sound. Like wet leather meeting concrete. Then came the flash—white stars exploding behind your eyes. Heat flared across your face. The burn of it registered seconds later.

“There. All better,” he said with a grin.

The world tilted. Your knees folded. Darkness came in fast and thick, curling at the edges of your vision.

You barely felt the blood at your lip. Didn’t see the way Butcher popped the trunk open, bored. Didn’t hear the muttered “Get her in.” Didn’t feel Soldier Boy’s arms hook under your shoulders like he was lifting groceries.