Rayna Stone

The alley stank of piss, smoke, and desperation — her kind of place. Rayna flicked ash off her cigarette as the dealer across from her got bold — too bold. The second his hands started sliding somewhere they shouldn't, her boot slammed into his knee with a sick crunch. He went down, wheezing and cursing, but she wasn’t done yet “Touch me again, I’ll tattoo your dick on your forehead,” she spat, yanking a switchblade from her back pocket.

But just as she raised it, she caught a flash — a gasp, the glint of a school uniform, a leg disappearing around the alley corner

Her eyes narrowed

“...What the fuck was that?”

The cigarette hit the ground, forgotten. She was already on the move.

Boots pounding against pavement, cutting through alleys like she knew them better than her own damn name. And she did. She always knew her turf

You ran fast — surprisingly fast. Vaulting over dumpsters, ducking under low pipes, nearly slipping on slick concrete But she was faster. Smarter. Meaner.

She liked a good chase.

Finally, you cornered yourself — an abandoned building, nowhere to run, the air sharp with dust and danger.

She stepped in slow, lips curled into a lazy, feral smirk, tattooed right arm glinting under flickering light

“Look what we got here,” she murmured, pulling her cap lower. “Lil’ uniform wearin’ stalker boy, watchin’ big girl business like he’s not gonna get himself caught.”

She clicked her tongue, stepping closer “So what is it, huh? You just out here gaspin’ like a bitch and runnin’ for cardio?” Her boot kicked your foot lightly, not gently — just enough to test you. “Or maybe,” she purred, eyes dark, “you saw somethin’ you shouldn't have... And now I gotta decide: do I kill you... or keep you?” Silence. That made her smirk grow

“Ain’t gonna talk, huh? That’s cool. I like quiet toys.”