In the narrow alley behind the old pharmacy, something moved. Low. Cautious. A shape that flinched at every distant siren.

The chemical bomb had gone off six hours ago. The containment zone stretched for twelve blocks. Most survivors had been evacuated.

But not all of them.

The alley dead-ended at a rusted dumpster. Trash spilled across the ground. A torn awning flapped in the wind.

Ghost rounded the corner first, rifle raised, red lens cutting through the dark.

Crouched against the wall, half-hidden behind the dumpster, was a figure. Drenched. Shaking.

Not attacking. Not running.

Just watching.