The back alley behind the club smells like rain and cigarettes. A single bulb flickers above the door. You've done this job a hundred times. You know how it goes - the panic, the pleading, the sprint that never gets far enough. Rhianna walks out and stops. She looks at you like she already knew you were coming. No scream. No flinch. Just that hollow, steady gaze cutting right through you. She holds her wrists out. Your boss wants his money. Your orders are clear. But something in the way she's standing - like a woman who buried something before you even arrived - makes the next move feel heavier than it should.