The scenery’s definitely improving, at least. If you’re into flickering lights and the perfume of dumpster juice. The street narrows, the asphalt pocked and dark with what looks like old oil. A boarded-up laundromat leans into a pawnshop that might still be open. Someone’s arguing two blocks over. Someone else laughs the wrong kind of laugh.
Brynn’s steps slow beside me. “This feels like a bad idea,” she mutters.
I sigh. “Most shortcuts are?—”
A shout interrupts me, followed by laughter—closer this time. Three men drift out from the corner ahead. Hoodies, jackets, one with a takeaway cup still in hand. Local guys, perhaps, bored and maybe a little drunk, with nowhere better to be.
We keep walking.
My hand instinctively drifts toward Brynn, a subtle gesture to keep her behind me.
A shrill whistle slices through the alley’s grime. My spine stiffens. Of all the monsters in all the worlds, this kind is the most tediously predictable.
“Hey, ladies,” one of them slurs, stepping directly into our path. The one with the cup. His breath rolls toward us, a foul mixof cheap liquor and something vaguely sweet. “Where you headed in such a hurry?”
His friends fan out, forming a sloppy, grinning wall of stained denim and unearned confidence. The street behind us is empty. The street ahead is blocked. A classic pincer movement, executed with all the tactical genius of a slime mold.
“Look at this one,” another one says, his eyes crawling over Brynn. “Cute. You got a name, sweet thing?”
Brynn shrinks back, her hand tightening on the map until the paper crackles. I keep my expression neutral, my body loose. I run a quick inventory. Three men, average height, probably above average fitness. No obvious weapons. Low light. Uneven pavement. The odds are unconcerning. The situation, however, is not.
“We’re not interested,” I say, my voice flat and cold. “Move.”
The “leader” chuckles, taking a step closer. The smell is worse up close. “Feisty. I like feisty.”
Oh, you have no idea.
He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering in a way that makes my skin crawl with a familiar, acidic anger. “You’re hot. Both of you. Just wanna talk.”
“Your version of ‘talking’ looks a lot like blocking our path,” Brynn says, her own voice sharper than I expected. Her Salem stubbornness is a small, bright flame in the dark.
He exhales through his nose, half amusement, half warning. “Relax. Nobody’s blocking anything.” His tone’s lighter now, that slippery kind of friendly that pretends not to be a threat while tightening the space around you.
Brynn shifts closer to me without meaning to. The man’s eyes flick to the movement—he notices everything: the nerves, the hesitation, the way our hands almost brush. It gives him permission.
He takes a small step forward, not enough to seem aggressive, just enough to test how far he can go. The air feels closer, heavier.
Then his hand lifts—casual, practiced, like he’s done this before.
His fingers brush the sleeve of her stupid theme-park hoodie.
And everything goes quiet in my head. The buzz of the sign, the distant music, the pounding in my own ears—it all fades to a single, sharp point of focus.
I don’t think. I move.
My elbow connects with his nose. There’s a wet, satisfying crunch, and he stumbles back with a choked scream, hands flying to his face as blood pours between his fingers. Before his friend on the left can even process what’s happened, I pivot, my boot sweeping his legs out from under him. He hits the pavement with a grunt that forces the air from his lungs. The third one, the quieter one, just stares, his mouth a stupid O of surprise.
A quick jab to the throat is all it takes. He collapses, gagging and clutching at his larynx, his eyes wide with a terror he’ll probably feel for a week.
It takes less than five seconds. No magic. No shadows. Just muscle memory and a deep, simmering well of rage I didn’t realize was so close to the surface.
I grab Brynn’s wrist. Her skin is cold. “Run.”
We don’t look back. We sprint, our footsteps echoing off the brick walls. The alley spits us out onto another street, brighter and wider, and we don’t slow down. We race past late-night diners and darkened office buildings, the station’s glowing sign a beacon in the distance. My lungs burn, not from the exertion, but from the sudden, violent release of tension.
We burst through the station’s automatic doors into a cavernous, half-empty hall that smells of disinfectant and despair. A few solitary figures are scattered on the benches, lostin their phones or their own thoughts. The air is cool, sterile. Safer.
We drop onto a hard plastic bench near the ticket machines, chests heaving. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. I watch my sister, her face pale under the fluorescent lights, her eyes wide. She’s staring at my hands.
