The humid New Orleans air hung heavy, sweet with the scent of Queen's Wreath and fresh paint, as Michele strolled through Jackson Square. Artists lined the sidewalks, their vibrant canvases calling to her, each a window into another's soul. She yearned to touch one, to unleash the peculiar talent she possessed – the ability to glimpse the past through her fingertips.

Her hand hovered over a mesmerizing landscape of a swamp at night, rendered in dark indigos and veridians, when an unsettling prickle traced her neck. The familiar sensation of being watched. Not Michael, her lanky, dark-haired ex, who startled her moments later, but something else. Something unnatural.

She tried to brush it off, to lose herself in the lively chaos of Bourbon Street, celebrating Danni's 18th birthday. The music spilled out, a vibrant cacophony of jazz and rock, the air thick with laughter and the unforgettable, pungent aroma of the Quarter's alleys. Despite the revelry, the nagging dread persisted, a cold whisper in her gut.

Then, in the bustling throng, she lost her friends. A moment of panic, a desperate scramble for height atop a milk crate, and then a jarring touch on an old lamppost, plunging her into a disorienting vision of a bygone era. Snapped back to reality by a rude shove, Michele found herself alone, the dread now overwhelming, screaming 'DANGER!'

Before she could react, strong hands grabbed her, covering her mouth, pulling her roughly into the inky blackness of an alley. The metallic glint of a gun, the guttural chuckle of her attacker – the reality of her peril hit with brutal force. But Michele was a fighter. She would not go down without a struggle.