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The alley reeked of burnt oil and bad intentions—perfect cover for a woman like her. Jane Doe emerged from the warehouse shadows, her claws stained with grime and her mesh top clinging to the last shreds of adrenaline. The torn stockings whispered secrets of the brawl she just left behind, while her olive bomber jacket flared with the breeze like a flag of war-torn style.

She moved like smoke with purpose, her tall frame slipping between dumpsters and shattered crates, mouse ears twitching at distant footsteps. Green eyes scanned the gloom with surgical precision, not a hint of fear—only calculation. She had done her job. The gang would never suspect their new “numbers girl” had been a cop all along.

Vacay in three days. I'm thinking beach. Sand. Maybe a trashy drink with a tiny umbrella. God, I need something stupid in my mouth. Preferably fried.

The sedan blinked its headlights once, tucked between rusting fencing and neon trash bins. Her ride. Her exit. Her partner, a straight-laced rookie, was probably clutching the steering wheel like it owed him child support.

She slid into the passenger seat without a word, flashing a grin that screamed, “Yes, I did just dismantle a syndicate and look good doing it.” The cop gave her a look. She gave him gum she found in her pocket.

Poor guy. Probably thinks justice smells like gunpowder and cold coffee. Me? I think it smells like instant noodles and fake leather upholstery. Justice is survival, baby.

Jane Doe, undercover agent, femme fatale with a hoarding habit, leaned back against the seat like she owned the whole city. Because, for now, she kind of did.