JAY'S POV — 5:07 A.M.
The city looked different before sunrise.
Cleaner. Meaner. Honest.
My shoes hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, breath controlled, muscles warm and loose. Hoodie up. Hair tied back. No music. I liked hearing the world when it forgot to perform.
Five kilometers in. Heart steady. Mind quiet.
That's when I heard it.
A sharp sound—metal on metal. A curse. Then another.
I slowed—not stopped—eyes scanning ahead.
An alley to my left. Narrow. Half-lit by a flickering streetlamp. Shadows moving wrong. Too many. Too fast.
A fight.
I looked away.
Not my problem.
I picked up my pace again.
I didn't need chaos before breakfast.
Then a familiar voice cut through the air.
"Back off—!"
I stopped.
That voice scraped memory like a nail.
Cin.
I turned.
He was cornered near a dumpster—four, maybe five men surrounding him. Older. Bigger. Street-built. One already bleeding from the mouth. Cin's knuckles were red, breath ragged, stance wide but unstable.
He was holding his own.
Barely.
I swore under my breath.
I should keep running.
Section E was not my responsibility. Cin definitely wasn't.
One of the men swung a bottle. Cin ducked—but too slow.
Glass shattered against the wall inches from his head.
That decided it.
I veered into the alley.
"HEY."
My voice cut clean and sharp.
Every head snapped toward me.
Cin's eyes widened. "Jay—?"
"Move," I said calmly, already assessing angles, weight distribution, exits.
One of the men laughed. "What, you bring backup? Little girl, get—"
I didn't let him finish.
I closed the distance fast—elbow driving into his throat, knee snapping up into his ribs as he folded. He went down choking.
The second guy rushed me.
Bad idea.
I sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, twisted hard—bone popped—then used his momentum to slam his face into the dumpster. He slid down unconscious.
Cin stared for half a second too long.
"Cin," I snapped. "Left."
He reacted just in time—ducking as a punch flew over his head.
I took the third man down with a heel kick to the knee—heard it crack—followed by a short, brutal strike to the jaw.
The fourth hesitated.
Smart.
The fifth wasn't.
He lunged at me from behind.
I felt it.
Dropped low, rolled, came up inside his reach and drove my palm into his nose. Blood sprayed. He screamed.
Silence hit the alley like a held breath.
Four men down.
One backing away.
"Go," I told him coldly.
He didn't argue.
Footsteps faded.
Cin leaned against the wall, chest heaving, eyes wide like he'd just watched a different species move.
"Holy—" He laughed breathlessly. "You're insane."
I wiped blood off my knuckles on my hoodie sleeve.
"You were outnumbered," I said flatly. "Next time, don't let them box you in."
He stared at me.
Not joking now.
"You didn't have to help," he said quietly.
I met his eyes.
"I know."
That unsettled him more than the fight.
Sirens wailed somewhere distant.
I turned to leave.
"Jay," Cin called after me.
I paused—but didn't turn.
"…Keifer doesn't know about this," he said. "Neither does Yuri. Or anyone."
"Good," I replied. "Keep it that way."
I jogged out of the alley, pace steady again, heart already slowing.
As if nothing had happened.
Behind me, Cin watched until I disappeared into the waking city—jaw slack, respect burned clean and irreversible into his expression.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, uninvited and irritating—
I wondered how Keifer Watson would look if he knew.
Not grateful.
Not relieved.
But furious—
That I'd stepped into his territory again.
And proved—
Once more—
That I don't wait to be saved.
CIN'S POV — AFTER THE ALLEY
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Not fear—
Aftershock.
I sat on the curb five minutes after she left, back against cold brick, staring at the blood on my knuckles like it belonged to someone else. The alley was quiet again. Too quiet. Like nothing had happened.
Except everything had.
Jay Mariano.
I dragged a hand down my face and let out a shaky laugh. "What the hell…"
She didn't hesitate. Didn't ask questions. Didn't look for permission.
She just moved.
I'd seen fights before—hell, I'd been in enough to earn a reputation. Section E didn't survive on clean hands. But what she did back there?
That wasn't rage. That wasn't showing off.
That was precision.
I replayed it whether I wanted to or not—the way she clocked angles, how she didn't overcommit, how every hit ended something. Four, maybe five guys. Grown men. And she dismantled them like it was just… another obstacle on her morning run.
And then she'd looked at me—calm, annoyed even—and told me what I did wrong.
Like she expected me to learn.
I snorted softly.
So much for the monster everyone kept painting her as.
She could've kept running. Would've been easier. Smarter, even.
But she didn't.
I pushed myself up slowly, body aching, and started walking home while the sky lightened from black to grey.
Keifer's voice echoed in my head from the night before—plans, strategies, control. Make her fall. Break her.
I felt something twist in my chest.
"She's not that bad," I muttered.
Actually—no.
She was bad.
Just not in the way we'd decided.
She wasn't cruel. She wasn't reckless.
She was dangerous because she chose when to care.
And for some stupid reason, she'd chosen me.
By the time I reached my place, I'd made up my mind.
It wasn't a big decision. Not a betrayal. Not a declaration.
Just a slip.
The kind no one notices until it's already done.
I'd be nice to her.
Not fake-nice. Not strategic.
Just… decent.
Hold the door. Back her up if things got loud. Not laugh when the others pushed too far and maybe not be a part of the plan... Just maybe...
A small shift.
But I knew Section E well enough to understand one thing—
Small shifts change outcomes.
And if Keifer found out?
I'd deal with it.
Because for the first time since Jay walked into our section like a loaded gun—
I didn't see an enemy.
I saw someone who'd stepped into a dark alley at dawn and chosen to fight when she didn't have to.
And that earns something.
Even in Section E.
Especially in Section E and to somewhat.... Of me.....