"Some people unwind with yoga; I practiced the art breaking bones."

BLURB

Kyra should have known better than to venture down Handover Street after nightfall. Yet, a mix of academic chaos and a downright miserable day leads her to disregard her own warnings—and straight into danger. Three muggers. One rusty pipe. And a maddeningly familiar face, a self-proclaimed hero armed with nothing but an endless supply of misguided peace treaties.

➤ RULE BREAKING HOUR  
[9:24 PM — Side alley of Handover Street]

Rule #3: Never take the shortcut through the back alleys of Handover Street after 9 p.m.
Rule #4: Only break Rule #3 if your day has already hit rock bottom.

Mine was well past that point.

Still preoccupied with mentally dissecting a student’s audacious yet absurd take on microeconomic theory— “Supply equals vibes” stood out as the pinnacle of tragic confidence— I found myself steering into the dim crosshatch of shadowy bricks and flickering streetlights.

Heat lightning carved the sky, casting jagged cracks into the night like nature’s graffiti. The air hung heavy, an acrid blend of ozone and piss clinging to my throat, while the alleys snarled back with their own spray-painted defiance.

Overhead, the streetlights buzzed intermittently, their flickers imitating the hesitance of a nervous witness. They painted jagged shadows across brick walls stained with decades of spilled beer and poor decisions.

Perfect shadows for hiding knives.
Or discarded bodies.

My fingers adjusted the strap of my bag, trailing against the cool curve of my keys—a makeshift weapon if reality turned more primal tonight. I kept walking, step firm and deliberate.
Not scared—just aware.

Violence and I had an understanding.
I understood its mechanics intimately, respected its inevitability, even embraced its utility when necessary.

Some people unwind with yoga; I practiced the art breaking bones.

✦✦✦

➤ DUMB IDEAS & SHARP OBJECTS AHEAD  
[9:28 PM — Side alley of Handover Street]

As three figures peeled away from the shadows, creeping forward like pests drawn to vulnerability, I didn’t let fear take hold.

Instead, I catalogued.

Limp—the one dragging his left leg, his knuckles a road-map of poor life choices. Twitch—dry, cracked lips, tapping a rusted pipe as though it were an extension of his jittery nature. Silent One—blocking my retreat, cloaked in menace with a blade catching glimmers from the erratic streetlight.

Each held something shiny and stupid.

But it wasn’t their weapons that caught my attention—it was the ink slithering up Limp’s neck, a crowned serpent etched into his skin.

Tiny’s crew.

Fantastic.

Limp’s grimy smile appeared, all yellow teeth and insincerity. “Evenin’, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice laced with mockery. "Got any spare change? Or maybe... somethin’ more interesting?”

Not bothering to mirror his enthusiasm, I replied with calm precision, my tone cutting sharper than his bravado. "Not really in the mood to donate tonight.”

Twitch let the rusty pipe bounce heavily in his palm. "That’s too bad. ‘Cause we’re in the mood to collect."

I exhaled in measured release, my stance subtly shifting onto the balls of my feet.

Calculations ran quickly in my mind:
Five seconds—three hits, maybe four if I had to make a point.

This wasn’t going to be a workout. It was going to be mildly annoying cardio.

And then—

A familiar voice sliced through the tension like a steak knife through tofu.

“Three-on-one? Hardly seems fair now, does it?”

Cynic Kyra: Oh, for fuck's sake. Him again?

I turned toward the source and, unsurprisingly, found him there—Kade Sterling.

Tall, reckless, and wearing an expression that teetered somewhere between smugness and I’m definitely out of my depth.

He sauntered forward with the unhurried confidence of a man negotiating over a minor disagreement about parking spots, not inserting himself into a potential beat-down.

His hands rose in mock diplomacy, as though to pacify angry shareholders instead of attempting damage control in the middle of a mugging.

"Now, gentlemen," he said smoothly, pulling out his wallet like it was a peace treaty, “there’s no need for violence. Let’s find a more productive solution, hmm? I’ve got about seven hundred bucks in cash. Just take the money... leave the lady alone. We all walk away winners.”

Cynic Kyra: Brilliant plan, dimples. Flaunt your money. That’s not stupid at all.

“Sure.” Limp couldn’t resist the bait; his grin widened like a predator who’d found easier prey. “We’ll gladly take the cash—and let her go. Now tell me…” His voice dropped low, slick with malice. “…how much for yourself, rich boy?”

Kade blinked, words backpedaling in slow-motion logic. “Uh—right—no… I meant both of us walk away safe.”

Twitch let out a barking laugh, filled with cruel amusement. “Then you should’ve phrased that better!”

And just like that—whack—the pipe connected with Kade’s ribs in an impact that made even my stomach turn.

A sickening wet thud echoed through the alley as Kade doubled over, coughing but—true to form—aimed me another ridiculous grin through the pain.

 His eyes were bright with something that looked like misplaced confidence.

"Don’t worry, fiancée. I’ll get us out of this."

"Charming," I muttered under my breath, unimpressed by his determination to play hero in stupid circumstances.

I watched the train-wreck unfold.
It felt akin to observing an optimistic kitten pawing at a locked door: vaguely amusing but exhausting for everyone involved.

His gall was impressive, if not entirely helpful.

Still undeterred, Kade rallied once more like some deluded diplomat. “Alright,” he started again, his tone absurdly even for someone teetering on the edge of disaster. “You’ve had your fun and my money. Let’s keep things civilized and—”

Whack.

Another swing of Twitch’s rod cut through his sentence, bringing fresh agony to Kade's ribs.

"Wow, you really love the sound of your own voice, huh?" Twitch grinned wickedly before delivering another blow—shoulder this time—that sent Kade sliding closer to the grimy pavement.

Pain spilled across Kade’s features. He tried to gasp out something clever but surrendered under groaning disbelief when Twitch lined up yet another strike.

Whack.

This time to the legs—the sound was sharp enough to trigger something inside me.

That was my limit.

Cynic Kyra: Okay… now I’m officially annoyed.

Dropping my bag to the curb with an air of inevitability, I stepped forward like devoting energy to this mess was no different from running errands on a particularly uninteresting Tuesday.

"Playtime's over, boys."