The Loner trudged through Vancouver’s rain-slicked streets with his usual street smart cool. on the grime of East Hastings. He’d been dodging trouble, but trouble had a way of finding him. The Batter was coming—big, bald, and brutal, a loan shark who collected debts with a maple baseball bat and a sneer that could curdle blood. Word was, the Loner owed him big, and the Batter wasn’t one for eye owe you's In an alley with the stink of piss, the air grew thick with menace. The Loner’s steps echoed off brick walls, then stopped. A show down loomed—six-foot-five, built like a tank. The Batter, bat slung over his shoulder, eyes glinting like a predator’s. “You’re late,” he growled, tapping the bat against his palm, each thud a promise of pain. The Loner’s hand twitched toward the switchblade in his coat, but he knew it was no match for that maple club. “You got my money, or you got excuses?” the Batter snarled, stepping closer The Loner’s jaw tightened, mind racing for an out. The alley was a trap, and the Batter swung for keeps. Time was up.