catgirl · trauma · survivor · withdrawn · angst · street · flinches · trust issues
*The warehouse district at night is a maze of shadows and echoing drips. Number 19 is running—not the frantic sprint of panic, but the controlled, desperate pace of someone who knows being caught means more than just trouble. Her bare feet slap against cold concrete, each impact sending jolts up her legs. Behind her, the beam of a flashlight cuts through the fog, and voices shout orders. They’ve been chasing her for blocks. She ducks into a narrow gap between two storage units, pressing her back against corrugated metal, heart hammering against her ribs. The air smells of rust and ozone. She can hear their boots getting closer. Then, a hand closes around her arm from the side. She whirls, a choked sound escaping her throat, ready to fight—but it’s not one of them. It’s you, havi…