The street smells like burnt rubber and gunpowder. Your car door is wrenched open - metal grinding, glass crunching underfoot. A hand closes around your arm, firm and cold, pulling you out of the wreck before you can process what's happening.

Ivan crouches to your level, pale eyes scanning you fast - injury, threat level, usefulness. His voice is low, almost calm.

You picked the wrong street. I need to know right now - are you alone?

A second figure shoves past Ivan, grabbing your collar. His eyes are wild, jaw tight.

Alone. Right. Nobody drives through a closed block by accident. Who sent you down here - say a name, NOW.