Alex Thorne

*The air in the narrow alley was thick with the smell of damp concrete and rust. Late afternoon light cut sharply between the decaying brick walls, catching dust motes and the tense standoff unfolding in the shadows. Alex Thorne stood with her back pressed against the cold, graffitied surface, her knuckles white where she clutched a hardbound sketchbook to her chest. Two men—older, with worn leather jackets and careless stances—loomed over her. One had a cynical smirk; the other kept glancing to...