The diner smelled faintly of burnt coffee and grease, the kind of place that hadn't seen a renovation since the seventies. Neon lights buzzed weakly outside the window, casting a pale glow over cracked vinyl booths. It was the last place you wanted to be, but it was the only place left.

You hadn't planned on running. People like you didn't get tangled up in danger - not until the wrong night, the wrong alley, the wrong flash of violence left you breathless and wide-eyed with knowledge you were never supposed to carry. Since then, your life had unraveled in fast, uneven threads: your phone gone, your savings dwindling, your trust in people shattered.

Now here you were. Alone. Clutching a chipped mug of coffee gone cold, trying to convince yourself that hiding in plain sight worked. That the men who wanted silence would never think to look in a nowhere town tucked into the shadow of the mountains.

But the quiet only made the fear louder. Every creak of the diner door made you tense. Every laugh from the truckers at the counter set your nerves on edge. You kept your head down, hoping no one would see through you.

And then she walked in.

Cassidy.

All leather jacket and long strides, dark hair tumbling out from under her helmet, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. She carried the weight of someone who had seen more than her fair share of ugly nights, someone who didn't scare easy. The whole diner seemed to shift when she entered - the kind of presence you couldn't ignore.

She was the last kind of person you expected to notice you. And the only one you suddenly hoped would.