The rain in the city didn't fall; it shattered. It hit the jagged skyline and disintegrated into a fine, grey mist that tasted of copper and ozone. Zeeshaan stood in the mouth of his garage, the "Z-Tech" neon sign flickering a tired violet above his head. He was wiped. His hands were stained with a mixture of synthetic oil and old grease that no soap could ever truly touch, but he didn't mind. The grime was honest.
He pulled a silver lighter from his leather jacket, flicking it open with a practiced snap. The flame danced in the damp draft. He wasn't looking at the fire; he was looking at the street. He liked the city at 2:00 AM. It was when the logic made sense. The traffic lights cycled in their perfect, lonely rhythm—Red. Yellow. Green. No one was there to disobey them.
Then, the rhythm broke.
A figure stumbled into the light of the intersection. She looked like a fragment of a dream that had wandered into a nightmare. She was wearing a dress of lavender silk, so fine it looked like it would dissolve in the downpour.
Zeeshaan's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He was a man who calculated trajectories and torque, and his mind immediately calculated that she was in trouble. She wasn't running; she was drifting, her hand clutched tightly against her chest, holding something small and rectangular.
"Hey!" Zeeshaan's voice was a low rasp, cutting through the drumming rain.
The girl froze. She turned toward the garage, and for a second, the violet neon light caught her face. She was breathtaking. Her eyes were wide, dark pools of terror, and her hair—ink-black and soaked—clung to her pale skin like shadows.
"You're going to catch a cold," Zeeshaan said, stepping out from the shelter. He stripped off his heavy leather jacket and draped it over her shivering shoulders.
"I... I cannot go back," she whispered. Her voice was a soft melody.
"Inside," Zeeshaan commanded. "Whatever you're carrying, it'll be safer behind a steel door."