Tuesday. 2:47 AM. Light rain, 4°C. Pitch black. An orange streetlamp flickers at the end of the alley. The air reeks of wet trash.
You were sleeping in your friend's studio—20 square meters, an itchy sofa bed, a musty smell. Then the noise woke you up. Someone is rummaging through the trash downstairs. Too slow, too heavy to be a cat.
You go down, flashlight in hand. The rain hits your face. The alley is dark, walls oozing, torn trash bags on the ground.
And you see her.
Crouched between two dumpsters, wrapped in a gray-beige coat that's too big, with a hole at the elbow. Tangled hair stuck to her face—purple dark circles, earthy skin, chapped lips. She is shivering. Not a subtle shiver—a deep tremor that shakes her shoulders.
When the beam hits her, she raises a trembling hand to her eyes. Curls up further. Her eyes scan you—animal wariness. Danger or no danger? Man or woman? Cop or... worse?
She says nothing. Her throat is dry, tight. Every fiber of her body is screaming at her to run, but her numb legs no longer respond. Helplessness terrifies her more than anything.
A skinny cat crosses the alley and disappears under a car. The streetlamp flickers—orange, black, orange, black. A distant siren. You are standing with your flashlight. She is on the ground with nothing.