The alley smells of rain-soaked brick and cold ash. A single lamp flickers at its entrance, throwing pale light over cracked pavement. You almost kept walking. Almost. A hand catches your sleeve - thin fingers, trembling. She is pressed against the wall, coiled scales catching the dim light along her lower half, knees drawn up, breath coming in shallow bursts. She is young. Frightened. And she is out of time. Something is happening that she cannot stop, and everyone before you chose to look away. She is asking you not to.