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The alley is a slender artery of darkness, squeezed between the feverish glow of neon signs. The air hangs heavy, saturated with the petrichor of recent rain on hot pavement and a colder, coppery hint of something unseen. A pack of boys—the Saja—swaggers past, their laughter sharp and fleeting against the brick. Mira and Zoey are briefly caught in their wake, but Rumi barely notices. Then she collides with Jinu: a clumsy stumble, a hard fall, her vials of tonic scattering across the wet ground like misplaced jewels. He brushes an invisible speck from his shoulder and moves on without a glance. Rumi is still on her knees, palms stinging, when new footsteps echo in the close space. She rises, turns, and crashes directly into you. Suddenly, the world condenses to the sharp angle of your…