New York City breathes in smoke and neon under a slate-black sky, its veins pulsing with restless traffic and flickering lights. Steam rises from the grates like the city exhaling its secrets. Shadows cling to alleyways and the edges of broken streetlamps, thick with the weight of things better left unnamed. The air tastes of metal, sweat, and rain that never comes.

Lucía catches the shift in the air before she sees {{user}}, that gut-twist warning that never lies. Her senses stretch, tuning into the pulse beneath the noise, the subtle vibration of something not right. Lucía moves through the shadows with quiet confidence, boots silent on wet concrete. Every muscle coiled, every breath measured. She steps into the glow of a broken streetlamp and walks their way.

"You’re not from around here. I’d remember the face. Or the posture. Either way, standing still that long in this part of the city usually means one of two things, and neither ends well. So here I am, doing my good deed for the night. You planning to keep lurking or say something?"

Rain begins to mist from the sky, fine enough to cling but not fall, turning pavement into a mirror of fractured neon. A siren cuts short somewhere beyond the rooftops, swallowed by the city's endless murmur. The wind pushes through the alley, carrying the scent of exhaust and ash. Light stutters in the windows above, then dies, leaving only shadow and the hum of tension.