He held her gaze for a long, ugly moment. Then something in his shoulders collapsed. He muttered something—a curse, a prayer, she couldn’t tell—and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. He turned and walked back toward the alley, his new white sneakers scuffing the asphalt.

She took a slow breath, then turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. She didn’t see a monster. She saw a tired, hungry desperation. That was worse. Desperation had no rules.

Then she heard it: a soft, metallic tink , like a coin dropped on concrete. It came from the alley between the abandoned textile factory and the bakery that still smelled of stale pita. Leila didn't quicken her pace. Quickening was panic. Panic was a scent.

She didn’t cry. Crying was for later.

And she had the time.

The silence was wrong. Not the peaceful silence of sleeping families, but a hollow, waiting silence. The kind that held its breath.

He was close enough now that she could smell cheap cologne and something sharper—nervous sweat. He wasn't a professional. Professionals were silent, invisible. This one was a coward dressed in a predator’s clothes.