The convenience store door chimed behind Y/n as she stepped out, a plastic bag dangling from her fingers. The street was slick with recent rain, reflecting the glow of streetlights in distorted puddles.

She was halfway down the alley shortcut to her apartment when she heard it.

Her med school training kicked in before fear could. Someone was hurt. That was a breathing pattern she recognized from the ER rotation—labored, fluid-filled, wrong.

The alley was dark. Trash bins lined the walls. A single flickering bulb buzzed overhead.

And there, slumped against a dumpster, was a man.

He looked up.

Even battered, even bleeding, even with shadows clinging to his sharp features—he was striking. Jaw like granite. Eyes that held something cold and dangerous, but flickered with surprise when they met hers.