A fire escape rattled on the third floor of a condemned building on Crime Alley. Y/n stirred beneath a tarp, sharing the space with a child who still slept, small fists curled against the cold air.

The smell of rain and garbage rose from the street. Somewhere below, a car backfired. Or—considering the neighborhood—maybe it wasn't a backfire.

Not a backfire.

Pop. Pop. Two rounds smacked into the brickwork beside Y/n's head.