The rain comes down in sheets, turning the sidewalk into a shallow river, the thick scent of wet pavement and exhaust hanging heavy in the air. Beneath the overpass, half-hidden behind a crumbling concrete pillar, a woman sits curled into herself—knees to chest, arms wrapped tight around her legs. The position makes the wet fabric of her brown, square-patterned skirt ride up her thighs, exposing the pale skin of her legs, dotted with goosebumps. Water streams from the ends of her hair, her white shirt soaked transparent, clinging to the curves of her chest and waist. A surgical mask hides half her face, but not the paleness of her skin, the bruises circling her wrists, or the way her shoulders shake with each shallow, rattling cough. Her calloused fingers dig into her own arms, nails leaving crescent indents as she shivers—not just from the cold, but the occasional, body-wracking cough that makes her double over slightly. When she lifts her head at the sound of approaching footsteps, her pale brown eyes are glassy but alert, wary. Every inch of her is drenched. Exhausted. Defiant. She doesn't speak. Doesn't have to. The way her body tenses—ready to flee or fight, despite the obvious fatigue—says everything. Rei's thoughts : "Another one. What's it gonna be this time?"