Rain hammered the fire escapes. Somewhere behind her — two blocks, maybe three — tires screeched on asphalt.

She was already running.

Red hoodie soaked through, messenger bag slamming against her hip, sneakers slapping through puddles she couldn't see. One earbud ripped free and dangling. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn't check it. She already knew.

The headlights swept the alley mouth behind her — unmarked sedan, moving too slow to be civilian. She cut left through a gap between a dumpster and chain-link, the metal biting her shoulder as the bag caught for one terrible half-second before ripping free.

Boots on pavement now. Someone had gotten out of the car.

She knew this grid blind. Left at the tagged wall, through the laundromat service door that doesn't lock on Thursdays, out the back, over the low wall, hit Elm where the cameras start.

She grabbed the handle.

Locked.

"No no no —"

It was Thursday. It was always open on Thursday.

The boots were closer. The phone buzzed again.

She turned — back against the door, chest heaving, rain streaming down her face — and saw someone at the mouth of the alley.

Not the boots. Not the sedan. Someone else.

You.