Chapter Text
The rain in the last few days didn’t feel like rain; it felt like a heavy, expensive mist designed to keep the gardens lush and the air sweet. But down in the dingy part of the town, just six blocks past the neon-lit security checkpoints, the rain fell like grease. It pooled in the potholes and smeared the grime against the brick walls of the alleys.
Love adjusted the strap of her clutch, her breath hitching as her five-inch designer heels slid slightly on a patch of wet gravel. She had left the charity gala early, suffocated by the endless chatter of trust funds and summer estates. Her driver was supposed to meet her at the side entrance, but a wrong turn through a heavy security door had locked her out in the labyrinth of the city's underbelly.
"Hey. Look what the storm dragged in."
Love froze. Three men stepped out from the shadow of a rusted dumpster. Their clothes were mismatched and frayed, but their eyes were sharp, fixed instantly on the shimmering silver silk of her gown.
"Lost, princess?" the tallest one asked, stepping into her path. He smelled of cheap gin and stale tobacco. "A dress like that surely costs more than my apartment. Why don't you let us take care of it for you?"
"Stay back," Love said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound like her father commanding a boardroom. "I have guards. They’re looking for me."
"Sure they are," the man sneered, reaching out a scarred hand to grab her bare wrist.
Love squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the impact of a rough pull, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Thud.
A sound like a wet sandbag hitting concrete echoed through the alley. Love’s eyes flew open. The man who had been reaching for her was on the ground, clutching his jaw and groaning in the mud.
Standing over him was a girl.
She wasn't as tall as the men, but she looked as if she were carved out of iron. She wore an oversized, faded black hoodie with the sleeves chopped off at the shoulders, revealing lean, corded muscles covered in faint, pale scars. Her hands were heavily wrapped in thick, blood-stained athletic tape.
"She told you to stay back," the girl said. Her voice was low, flat, and completely devoid of fear.
The remaining two men looked at their friend on the ground, then at the girl's stance. Her weight was perfectly balanced on the balls of her battered sneakers, her chin tucked, her wrapped hands raised in a loose, casual guard.
"You're dead, Milk," one of them hissed, recognizing her. But he didn't move forward. Instead, he grabbed his groaning friend by the collar, and the three of them backed away into the darkness, swearing under their breath.
The girl—Milk—let her hands drop to her sides. She exhaled a long breath, her shoulders sagging slightly, and turned to walk away without a word.
"Wait!" Love called out, stepping forward heedless of the puddles ruining her heels. "You're... you're bleeding."
Milk paused, looking back over her shoulder. Under the flickering purple neon of a nearby club sign, Love could see a fresh cut spitting blood just beneath Milk's collarbone, and her knuckles were raw.
"I'm fine," Milk muttered, her eyes tracing over Love's pristine dress, its sheer absurdity of her presence in this alley. "Get back home, rich girl. You shouldn’t be wandering around here."
"I'm Love," she said, her voice softer now, driven by a sudden, intense curiosity that eclipsed her lingering fear.
Milk stared at her for a long, silent beat. She finally grunted, before pulling her hood over her head and vanishing into the shadows of the rain.