The alley stank of old oil and rot.
Fóntas kept her steps steady, pretending not to hear the boots behind her. She turned the corner and entered a dead-end alley tight walls, a rusted crate, shadows thick enough to hide in. She'd walked this path before. She knew the turns.
"Thought I saw a little rat slipping out the yard," came the voice cocky, nasal, too loud for the space.
She turned, eyes calm, guarded. The man from earlier. An awakener. No known class, but his gloves shimmered with faint traces of energy an enchantment of some kind. Not flashy, but dangerous enough.
"I'm not in your way," Fóntas said.
"Nah," he sneered, "you're just breathing. That's the problem."
He stepped forward and that was when she moved.
From her neck, she slipped the golden rope, twirling it by the bolts like a practiced art. With a sudden flick, the blunt weight of the bolt lashed forward and slammed into the joints of his right hand.
Crack.
The sound was sharp and cruel. He screamed, hand twitching, then glowing as his ability surged.
"You little—!"
He charged.
Fóntas spun, the rope coiling low. She ducked under his arm, the loop catching his legs mid-run. With one sharp tug, he fell face-first into the alley floor.
But she didn't wait. She turned and ran, vanishing into the shadows before he could rise.
Later...
In a smokey backroom, the thug slammed his bruised hand on the table.
His leader didn't even flinch.
"What happened?"
"She cracked my fingers," the thug growled. "Used some kinda makeshift weapon. One of the junkrats in the salvaging crew."
That caught the leader's attention. He slowly turned his head.
"A junkrat hurt you?"
"She caught me off guard. I wasn't using my full strength."
The leader studied him for a long, silent moment.
Then he leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Find her," he said quietly. "Before someone else does."