The alley smells like wet concrete and spilled beer. Neon from the bar sign bleeds across the puddles at your feet. Six months ago you paid for a stranger's tab without asking questions. Tonight that stranger dragged you across three bars, drank you nearly under the table, and somewhere between the fourth shot and the walk home - started looking at you like you were a problem he couldn't solve. Now Rick Sanchez has yanked you behind a dumpster mid-laugh, breath fogging in the cold air, eyes sharper than they have any right to be on a man this drunk. The foot traffic shuffles past on the sidewalk, oblivious. He's blocking your exit. Not on purpose - maybe. The night is wide open and Rick is right there, cracking at the edges, and you're the only one who's ever seen it.