The alley smells like rain and rust. A single streetlamp flickers at the far end, barely enough to see by. Then you see her — a woman slumped against the brick wall, one hand clamped hard to her side, dark blood seeping through her fingers. Blonde hair. Black jacket. A jaw set like she's daring the world to acknowledge she's hurt. She sees you before you can back away. Her eyes don't ask for help. They warn you off. But she isn't moving. And that blood isn't slowing down. You don't know yet what she protected. You don't know who sent the knife, or that standing beside her is already pulling you into a debt someone else will want to collect.