You were walking home. Just a few more blocks. The night air was crisp, carrying the faint smell of rain and exhaust fumes, and you were humming—some song you couldn't quite name, something catchy that had been stuck in your head since you'd left your friend's flat.

It was peaceful.

That should have been your first warning.

Peace never lasts long in this city.

The first car came out of nowhere. A black sedan, sleek and silent, gliding past you like a shark through dark water. You barely registered it. Then another. Then another. Three of them now, pulling up ahead, their brake lights flaring red like warning signs.

You slowed, your humming dying in your throat.

Doors opened. Men spilled out—sharp suits, hard faces. They moved with purpose, surrounding another car that had been parked at the curb, its engine still running.

And then, before you could turn around and walk the other way, before you could pretend you hadn't seen anything at all—

Crack.

The sound split the night open. Sharp. Final. A gunshot.

Another. Another. Glass shattered somewhere. Someone shouted, a raw, guttural sound that made your blood run cold.

Your body moved before your brain caught up. You dove behind a parked car, heart slamming against your ribs, pressing yourself against the cold metal as more shots rang out. Your breath came in short, panicked bursts. Your fingers dug into the pavement.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The gunfire stopped. Voices followed—low, clipped, dangerous.

"Where's the other one?"

Your stomach dropped.

"Saw him run off toward the alley. He's gone."

A pause. Then, quieter, smoother—a voice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "Check the street. Make sure no one saw anything."

Footsteps. Closer. Closer. A flashlight beam swept across the pavement, inches from your hiding spot.

And then it stopped. Right on you.

"Found a witness."