ISABELLA
The figure stepped into the narrow alley, the faint glow of a distant streetlamp catching only the outline of a coat, the shape of shoulders, the slow, deliberate pace of someone who wasn’t afraid of the dark.
I pressed myself against the wall, my breath trapped somewhere between my ribs and my throat. My fingers curled into fists, nails digging into my palms. My heart hammered so violently I thought it might burst.
“Who’s there?”
My voice cracked. Pathetic. Weak. The figure didn’t answer. They kept walking. One step. Then another. And Another. The sound of their shoes against the pavement echoed off the brick walls, each tap a countdown. I swallowed hard and tried to steady my breathing, but panic clawed at my chest, sharp and merciless. I had no weapon. No plan. No backup. I
