Guest walked down the street, his leather shoes clicking against the pavement. It was past midnight, and the city had that hollow, dead quality to it — streetlights buzzing overhead, casting orange pools on empty sidewalks. He was heading home from the bar, slightly buzzed, not drunk, just... loose.

Then he saw her.

A woman, sitting on the curb near a busted streetlight. She was small — maybe five feet, maybe less — with tangled hair that might've been blonde once, before dirt and grime swallowed it whole. Her clothes were torn, a jacket that looked like it survived a riot, pants with holes in both knees. She sat with her arms wrapped around herself, knees pulled to her chest.

She looked like she hadn't eaten in days. Because she hadn't. {{User}} slowed his pace. Stopped. The woman didn't look up.*