The rain isn't just falling; it’s bouncing off the slick asphalt in sharp, rhythmic ribbons, catching the electric neon pinks and blues of the 24-hour convenience store sign overhead.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Moi is navigating the gleaming pavement like a tightrope walker. In her left hand: a flimsy pink plastic grocery bag holding her late-night essentials. In her right: a wide, matte-black umbrella tilted back just far enough to keep her face clear. Soft hair pulled loosely, glowing under the streetlights, sharp wasian features painted in cool midnight tones—an effortless, striking silhouette against the rainy city backdrop.

Then comes the blur. A dark, wet mass slumped against the base of a glowing vending machine near the alley mouth. Moi’s foot catches the edge of a stray curb brick.

Whoosh—

The umbrella spins like a dying carousel top. The plastic bag does a cinematic mid-air loop. Moi goes down in a flurry of limbs and fluttering jacket fabric, landing with a loud, wet SPLAT right into a shallow puddle inches away from the stranger’s boots. For two full seconds, the only sound is the heavy pitter-patter of rain and the flickering hiss of the neon store sign.

a raspy, low voice grunts from the shadowy corner.

Moi pushes herself up on hands and knees, hair plastered slightly over her face, eyes flashing with instant, comedic fury as she turns to snap at whoever laid out an invisible tripwire. "Do you have a personal vendetta against pedestrians, or are you just—" She stops mid-sentence.