I keep walking, practically running down the icy concrete, my egg roll abandoned in my haste when I hear groaning—and not the kind that comes from subway vents creaking from the rustle of a train, but groaning that sounds distinctly human and in pain.
I freeze, but only for like five seconds—just long enough to tilt my head and hold my breath to make sure I didn't imagine it. Nothing but the slosh of melting snow and the honk of a distant cab.
So I push forward.
Because this is New York City, and there are questionable noises everywhere. I've lived here long enough to know that half the weird alleyway sounds aren't worth a second thought. Could be a drunk guy. Could be a raccoon. Could be a ghost with unfinished business. Honestly, could be all three sharing a studio apartment.
None of those things are my problem tonight. Not when I'm holding three bags of piping-hot food and stuffing my face with an egg roll.
Whoever—or whatever—made that sound is going to have to pry this food from my frozen, dead hands if they want it. And besides, I'm maybe fifty feet away from the warm, concrete safety of the Petrov building. If anyone so much as breathes wrong in my direction, they're going to meet the fiery, badass fists of my best friend Nadia.
I once knew a guy in high school who smacked my ass in front of her. He no longer has that hand.
That fucker does not want to know what she'd do to someone who messes with me and her dinner.
I turn down the skinnier alley that leads to the backside of the building—wedged between the glass and steel giants of Eighth Avenue and the glittering rows of restaurants and shops on Seventh. This shortcut is always a little too dark, a little too quiet, and smells vaguely like old fryer grease and whatever yoga mats are made of.
Then I hear it again. Groaning. And rustling.
This time, I pause. Fully.
I do a slow, deliberate 360-degree scan of my surroundings, because—like any self-respecting Final Girl knows—you don't just run. They will chase you. You don't just hide. They will find you. You have to fight. And despite being a 160-pound woman who hasn't seen the inside of a gym in months, I did take boxing for years and I still have a killer right hook when the adrenaline hits.
That particular sound combo—groans plus rustling—usually means one of three things: rats, an unhoused person, or, you know… a murder.
And listen. I have sympathy, I do. But I also have three bags of food and a deeply rooted fear of rodent-related chaos, and it is way too cold for the first two options to be lingering out here for fun. So if it's the third? Well. I hope they are ready for a broken nose and to choke on some dumplings.
I pick up my pace, practically speed-walking now, the plastic handles biting into my forearms. My boots squish through icy slush that soaks into the seams no matter how waterproof they claim to be. The alley ahead yawns open like a narrow mouth. The flickering security light above the back entrance casts long, jittery shadows that seem to move on their own. Trash bags sag against the walls, and steam rises from a nearby grate, curling in slow tendrils that snake across the ground.
This entire scene feels and looks like I am going to die, and I can't die without reading Stephen King's entire discography. It is literally my only life goal.
"Do you know…" A voice echoes down the alley way and seems like it is straining to speak. "How fucking stupid you are being right now?"
I take another step forward and see a body behind the dumpster, leaned up against the wall. A figure in all black steps forward, the crunch of ice under his boots as he makes his way closer to the slumped over body.
"No," the too familiar voice of the man responds, leaning against the brick alley wall. "Tell me."
I press myself flat against the wall, holding my breath. The food bags sway with my movement, rustling softly as the scent of soy sauce and fried dough wraps around me. My eyes are locked on the man, leaning over to the side, his light grey wool jacket is darkening with each moment.
"Come on, Petrov," the man on the floor responds. His voice is sharper, cockier, laced with desperation as he lets out another hacked cough. "We can come to some kind of deal. You don't have to go down with everyone else."
The distinctive chuckle of Aleksandr rolls through the alley, followed by the wet sound of spit hitting pavement. The figure in all black who I know in my gut is Aleksandr leans over the man's body, his hand pressing on the darkening spot on his side.
"You want me to betray my family?" he snarls, the words so sharp they practically slice the air. He leans in, close—so close I can't even see the man he's speaking to anymore. All I see is Aleksandr, a silhouette carved in vengeance, the shadows eating him alive.
In all my years of knowing the Petrov siblings, I've seen the darkness that clings to them like perfume. I've seen the aftermath of their wrath, the despair in their quiet moments. I've known, without a shred of doubt, that they are not good people—not to most. Not to many.
But to me? They've always been good. Protective. Fierce. Unshakably loyal.
Still… this? This is something else entirely.
Aleksandr isn't angry. He isn't snarling or screaming. His voice is low, smooth, deadly calm. He soundshappy. Not the kind ofhappy you find in a smile or a laugh—but the kind of joy found in clarity. In purpose. In knowing exactly what needs to be done.
The man before him is on the ground, knees soaked in slush and blood, body shuddering like it's trying to slip out of itself.
But Aleksandr? He's relaxed. Loose. Like he's finally taken a breath after holding it for years.
And I realize with sudden, stomach-twisting certainty: this is Aleksandr free. Not restrained by pretense or business suits or polite smiles. This is Aleksandr in his element.
