There's the distant sound of a train rumbling overhead, the echo of laughter spilling from somewhere behind closed doors. The air smells like rain and fried food and something metallic.

You should have taken the long way home. You know the alleyways near the bar district are dangerous. Everyone knows. But your legs can barely carry you, and the shortcut saves you fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of sleep you desperately need.

The hallway is narrow, dark. Brick walls on either side, grimy windows letting in the faint glow of neon signs outside. There's a group of old men huddled near a doorway, cigarettes burning between their fingers. They don't look at you. They don't need to.

And then — a shape. A figure passing you in the opposite direction. Red hair catching the dim light for just a second.

You barely register him. You're too tired, too focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

Then there's a tug. Sharp. Sudden. Not from your body — from your hand.

Your pinky finger burns.

You stumble. Your feet tangle. Your shoulder clips the wall, and you're falling backward, straight into the stranger who just walked past you. You collide. You yelp.

A hand catches your wrist — rough, gloved — and shoves you off without a second thought.

You hit the ground. The back of your skull cracks against concrete.

Pain. Blinding. White-hot.

Your vision swims. The neon signs bleed into smears of color. The old men's murmurs become a distant hum.

And through the haze, something wraps around your pinky. Tight. Inescapable.

A red thread. Glowing faintly in the darkness, trailing from your finger to... his.

The man has stopped walking. He stands a few feet away, silhouetted against the dim light spilling from the bar door. He's looking down at his own hand. At the thread wrapped around his smallest finger.