The air tastes of exhaust and damp cardboard. A rat scuttles along the base of a boarded-up bodega. In the distance, a siren wails, rises to a peak, and fades somewhere into the maze of steel and brick that passes for this city's skyline.

She's three blocks from the rundown studio she calls home. The one with the radiator that clanks like a dying engine and the landlord who never asks questions. The one that's been safe for three months. Longer than any other place.

The footsteps begin behind her. Three sets. Steady. Professional. Not the shuffle of a desperate junkie or the staggered walk of a drunk stumbling home.

Her pulse quickens.

The alley on her left gapes like an open mouth. Dark. Wet. The smell of old urine and rust. She could cross the street. She could run. She could—

She's pulled into the alley before she can scream. Her back hits the brick wall, the breath knocked from her lungs. Three of them. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark suits, perfectly pressed. And masks. Black fabric pulled tight over their faces, no eyes visible, no mouths. Just smooth, featureless voids.

The leader tilts his head. The movement is birdlike. Wrong.

The second man draws a pistol. The silencer catches the weak light from the street. He screws it on with methodical precision, like he's done this a hundred times before.

Y/n presses herself against the wall. Her hands are shaking. Her legs are shaking. The power thrums beneath her ribs, hot and bright, begging to be released. She clenches her fists. No. No. She can't control it. She'll hurt herself. She'll hurt innocents. She'll—

The leader raises a hand.