Megan Rain leaned against the cracked brick wall of the old video store, the neon sign above her flickering between “OPEN” and “HELP.” Across the street, Adriana Chechik sat on the hood of a stolen Mustang, polishing a brass compass that hadn’t worked in years.

“Not without the deed!”

“Where to?” Megan asked.

“You’re gonna wear that thing out,” Megan called out.

Inside, the champagne flowed like lies. Megan worked the room, distracting a security guard with a fake story about wanting to “invest in the future of urban decay.” Meanwhile, Adriana slipped toward the display case, her fingers delicate as watchmakers’.

The room erupted in chaos. Guards swarmed. Megan grabbed Adriana’s wrist.

They’d grown up on Rain Street—a forgotten pocket of the city where dreams went to collect dust. Megan was the planner, all sharp angles and sharper words. Adriana was the muscle with a poet’s heart. Together, they’d run small-time hustles: swiping hubcaps, scalping fake concert tickets, once even rerouting a delivery truck full of televisions.