The late summer air was thick with the smell of exhaust and damp pavement. Neon lights from the corner shop flickered against the cracked bricks of the alley, their glow painting the night in sickly pink and green. Lyra didn't belong there, not really - at least that's what her mother's voice would have said if she could hear her daughter's boots echoing on those dirty stones.
But Lyra wasn't the type to stay where she belonged.
Her copper hair caught the faint light whenever she moved, strands glowing like fire against the shadows. She tugged the leather jacket tighter against her frame, ignoring the catcall from a man slouched against the wall. Her grey eyes gave him a flat, sharp look, the kind that cut deeper than a knife. He shut his mouth instantly. They usually did.
Lyra didn't know why she liked walking through this part of the city at night. Maybe it was the danger, the uncertainty. Maybe it was the fact that, for a few minutes, no one asked her to play nice. She could be whoever she wanted - the silent shadow, the reckless rebel, the girl with a switchblade hidden in her pocket.
She was about to turn an alley when a voice stopped her.
"Wrong street, princess."
She turned.
A tall figure leaned against the hood of a beaten-up car, cigarette dangling from his lips, the smoke curling lazily upward as if time itself slowed for him. His black hair was a tousled mess. His green dark eyes glimmered with mockery under the dim streetlight.
Ezra.
He wore black, of course. He always wore black. Jacket, ripped jeans, boots scuffed from too many fights. His grin was sharp, designed to provoke.
Lyra's jaw tightened and her hand brushed her switchblade, hidden in the depths of her pocket. She took a step closer to Ezra, her eyes narrowing to slits. "Move" she spat out, the words sharp and venomous. The sound of her boot heels on the pavement echoed through the alleyway, a warning. Her grey gaze swept over him, from his cocky grin to the smoldering cigarette between his fingers. Despite his attempt to intimidate, she felt the thrill of a challenge. This wasn't a part of the city where you talked to strangers unless you had business or were looking for a fight, and this guy looks like he is always there. Behind her, watching her. Lyra already walked through Ezra a few times before and she caught his name in a random night when he was out in a fist fight. Pathetic.
He watched her approach with amusement, his chuckle deepening. "Well, look at that fire" he murmured, flicking ash onto the ground, "I've always liked a spicy challenge." His words are a mix of mockery with challenge, but his pupils dilated as he trailed down her body, taking in the defiant tilt of her chin and the tension in her slender frame. He leaned further against the car, crossing his arms over his chest, his posture lazy but the tension in his shoulders telling a different story. He took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes never leaving hers.
But if he thought his leisurely posture would throw her off, he was wrong. If anything, it made her angrier. Lyra hated men who hid behind smugness. He was infuriating. She stepped closer, close enough to taste the smoke he exhaled. "I don't have time for games," she hissed. "If you don't move, I'll make you."
Ezra laughed under his breath, the sound rough and dark. "You've got claws, I'll give you that He tipped his head, closing the gap, just enough to make her pulse skip. "You're like a kitten hissing at a wolf. Cute." His smile widened, dangerous, eyes burning with the thrill of it.
For a moment, neither moved. The alley tightened around them, neon flicker turning shadows jagged. Lyra could smell leather, smoke, sweat - him. Ezra caught the floral trace of her shampoo, too clean for this place. Neither looked away. The air buzzed between them like a live wire.
Lyra's pulse hammered against her ribs. Why isn't he making a move? Men like him didn't stand around throwing words in alleys like this. They took. They demanded. Yet here he was, steady, his green eyes locked on hers, radiating amusement instead of malice. Was this a game? A trap? Her fingers flexed on the blade, but it offered no answers.
Ezra tilted his head, a slow, predatory smile spreading. "That blade won't save you, firecracker." He didn't reach to disarm her, didn't tense more with the knowledge of her hidden blade. Instead, he shifted, turning his body sideways, clearing a narrow path past the car. A dismissal. Or worse, pity. "Go home."
The words burned hotter than his mockery. His casual turn screamed what he thought of her: Small. Weak. A child playing at rebellion. Fury surged, heat crawling up her neck. She scraped her boot against the wet pavement, deliberate, sharp. "I will go wherever I want to." she hissed, stepping into the space he'd cleared.
Ezra's smirk vanished slowly as he caught movement over her shoulder, his eyes shifted past her. Three figures come out from the shadows, from another street into the alleyway. Their silhouettes bulky, predatory. He knew their type – sharks smelling blood, drawn to vulnerability. And Lyra, small, pretty, slim and coiled defiance... just how they like it. His posture changed in a blink. Lazy lines gone, green eyes sharpened into something cold
"Friends of yours?" he muttered, tone flat with sarcasm, but his gaze locked on the men closing in.