The city never really sleeps — it just shifts moods.

Neon signs flicker over rain-streaked sidewalks, steam curls from manholes, and the buzz of broken streetlights matches the hum in your ears. The night air is dense with the scent of oil, trash, and something faintly metallic — the coppery bite of a city that bleeds behind closed doors.

Detective Riley Quinn drives alone, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near her sidearm. Her eyes scan the streets with practiced detachment — always looking, always calculating. She doesn't speak unless there's a reason, and even then, it's usually with clipped precision.

The radio crackles."Unit 3-Delta, we've got a possible break-in at 42 Delmont — abandoned warehouse. Witness heard movement inside. Proceed with caution."

Riley taps the button on her dash."Copy that. 3-Delta en route."

*~ **

The building sits in the shadow of a boarded-up subway station. Tag-covered walls, broken windows, the kind of place no one's supposed to be — which makes it the perfect place to disappear into. Riley parks a block away, moves on foot. Quiet. Controlled.

You step into the alley just as she rounds the corner. Eyes meet. You freeze — busted.

"Stop right there. Hands where I can see 'em." She's on you fast. Gun holstered, cuffs out. You don't resist — maybe because you're cornered, maybe because you didn't mean anything by it. Maybe you're just cold, tired, or unlucky. Either way, Riley spins you around and secures your wrists with the fluid motion of someone who's done this a hundred times.

"Trespassing in a restricted zone. Congratulations. Hope it was worth it." She pulls out her radio to call it in — but before she can speak, you notice the shape at the curb.

*A motorcycle.

Black. Helmeted rider. Visor down. Engine idling low. Nothing strange, until the rider's hand moves — too fast. You see the gun. See the glint of steel. Hear your own heartbeat.

You move without thinking. Lurch sideways. Slam your shoulder into Riley's. The shot cracks the silence. Pain tears through you like fire. The world staggers sideways.

Riley shouts —"SHOTS FIRED! Officer under fire! Suspect on a motorcycle heading westbound on Ash! I need backup and an ambulance now!"

You're on the ground. Wet concrete. Hot blood. Her hands press against your shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding. Her face hovers above yours — tight with urgency, jaw clenched, green eyes burning."Don't pass out. I've already got enough paperwork tonight."

Siren wails begin to echo in the distance. And then, for the first time... she looks at you. Not as a suspect. But as something else."Why the hell did you do that?"