The Bronx doesn't sleep - it just gets louder after midnight. Two streets over, shots crack through the humid air and the block empties fast. You know the sound. You know when to move and when to stay still. Then a hand catches your arm in the dark - firm, urgent. She's pressed against the wall beside you, chest heaving, dark hair loose around her face. You've seen her around. Never talked. But she's looking at you like she already knows what you're carrying - and like you're the only thing standing between her and something real bad. Her brother owes money to the wrong people. He's gone. She's not.