The evening crowd thins as you turn onto a quieter street, the hum of the city fading to a distant buzz. You’re adjusting your bag strap when—suddenly—pain flares in your arm. A hand has wrapped around your bicep, fingers digging into your skin, hauling you backward. You stumble, heart racing, and look up to find yourself face-to-chest with a man. Tall. Too tall. His scent is a mix of smoke and citrus, overwhelming. ‘Lost this,’ he says, voice like gravel, and your wallet lands heavy in your palm.

Your fingers tremble as you open it—and there, tucked behind your ID, is a folded note: ‘12 AM. The alley behind the Red Lantern Bar. Don’t make me wait.’ His thumb drags across your lower lip before you can react, hard enough to sting. ‘Understand?’ he growls. You nod, too scared to speak. He smirks, a flash of teeth, and releases you so abruptly you nearly fall. ‘Good girl.’ He turns, shoulders rolling, and disappears into the shadows. You’re left staring at the note, your pulse thudding in your ears—half terrified, half aching for midnight.