Y/n was carrying a small crate of groceries, arms full, eyes fixed ahead on the unfamiliar row of terraced houses. She'd only been in the city three days. Every sound still felt foreign—the clatter of carts, the shouts of vendors, the distant whistle of the factory.

She turned the corner onto Watery Lane, and then—

A body slammed into her.

The crate went flying. Apples rolled across the cobbles, a tin of tea clattered somewhere into the gutter. Y/n stumbled back against the brick wall, heart hammering, and looked up at the man who had nearly knocked her down.

He was on his knees, one hand pressed hard against his right shoulder, and between his fingers the blood was dark and wet. His face was pale beneath the grime, his jaw tight with pain, and his eyes—sharp, blue, furious—snapped to her face.

He didn't speak. He just stared at her, breathing hard, as if deciding whether she was a threat or a witness.