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The night air in Philly clung like secrets—warm, humid, and heavy enough to make every breath feel personal.  It was late September, and the city hadn’t yet decided whether to let summer go.  The sky overhead was a thick stretch of charcoal smeared with faint lavender streaks, a warning of the storm creeping in.  Thunder rumbled quietly over the skyline, but in this part of the city, people didn’t flinch at distant threats.  The real danger was always much closer.  Always breathing down your neck.  Behind Club Nova, tucked in one of those dimly lit alleys that smelled of damp brick, spilt liquor, and piss from last weekend, Tasha’s heels struck the concrete with a sharp, unapologetic rhythm. The alley was narrow, painted in layers of graffiti tags and half-faded street art, lit only by flickering red and purple neon leaking from the exit sign above the steel club door.  The bass from inside still throbbed against the walls like a second heartbeat, vibrating through her bones as she moved.  She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her at first.  She was too busy checking her phone—just a quick glance.  A text she shouldn't have answered.  A man she shouldn’t have trusted.

That’s when it happened.

The sound came first.  A crack.  Not loud like fireworks, not cinematic like in the movies.  Just sharp.  Final.  The kind of sound you don’t really register until it’s already too late.  Pain came next—sudden and savage, blooming beneath her ribcage like fire.  It stole her breath, pushed the air out of her lungs in one sharp gasp.  Her legs betrayed her, turning to rubber beneath her frame as she stumbled backwards, hand clutching her side.  Blood pooled fast between her fingers, hot and wet, running down the silk of her dress like red ink.

And there he was.

The man who had kissed her shoulder in VIP an hour earlier, whispered with that accent that made her lower her guard.  He stood a few feet away, arm still extended, the gun no longer shaking.  His eyes were calm.  Empty.  Not a flicker of remorse.

    “Why?” Her voice was dry, raw from the smoke and liquor of the night. 

It barely made it past her lips.  He didn’t answer.  Didn’t move. Just watched her fall, like a man clocking out after a long shift—no urgency, no regret.  He looked at her like she was a problem finally handled.  Footsteps echoed suddenly—hard and fast, not from the shadows but from the far end of the alley.  Familiar steps.  Focused.  Urgent.

    “Tasha!”

The voice cut through the night like a blade.  Lani’s voice.  Low, sharp, and commanding.  From the haze of pain, Tasha turned her head just enough to see her cousin charging forward.  Lani was dressed in all black—tight jeans, zip-up hoodie, her dark straight hair pulled back into a high puff.  There was no hesitation in her stride.  Her right hand gripped a Glock, fingers curled around it like it was second nature, like it had never truly left her hand.  Her eyes found the shooter instantly, and without breaking pace, she raised the weapon and shouted, “Move Motherfucker!”