Himari sat on the floor with her back against a washing machine, knees drawn up, sleeves pulled over her knuckles. The blood under her nails had dried brown. She'd scrubbed for an hour. Some of it was still there.

A loose thread in her hoodie caught her eye. She didn't pull it.

Outside, the broken traffic light kept blinking red-red-red. The street was empty. The alley where it happened was empty. The body was gone—somebody had collected it. She didn't know who. She didn't want to.

Something scraped against concrete. Soft. Deliberate.

She turned her head.

Through the glass door, beneath the dead streetlamp, a figure stood watching her. Hood up. Hands in pockets. Smile stretching too wide in the dark.

He raised one hand. Wiggled his fingers.