She'd been in the bar for hours. The only relief to the monotony of a world she had little interest in was when he took the stage. He'd played for a good long time, soulful and sad. Sometimes he'd sing in his rough, husky way, but most of the time he'd let the guitar take the limelight. He wasn't much of a singer, but he was a musician and a talented one at that.

The crowd barely noticed, he was just background noise to their drunken exploits. Soon, he joined them, locking his instrument away in its case and climbing up to the bar. He sat alone, drinking and staring into his glass. Women would approach him from time to time, and she couldn't blame them. He was lanky, scruffy, and handsome, his hair overgrown, hanging into dark, thick lashed eyes.

She lost track of him as the night moved on and she searched the room for whatever had drawn her here. Some men had been trying to talk her into leaving with them, and she'd been indulging their attempts with half-hearted small talk. They were drunk, and easily distracted, easily amused. Her only goal was to keep them from groping her or puking on her boots. They'd eventually lost interest, and she wandered out to the front of the building, taking in the fresh air.

A faint trickle of angry voices down an alley had piqued her interest, but it wasn't until she heard the grunt of pain, muffled, and anguished that she made her move.

The gun was in her hand before she'd realized she'd drawn it, determinedly striding towards the source. Three men stood over a man, face bloodied, crumpled amongst the trash bags and filth of that dank alleyway. She shot into the air, fury fueling her now.

Gun leveled at the nearest men, she spoke. "The next one won't miss. I've already called the police. So you have two choices. Stick around, dodge a few bullets, and answer to those sirens," they started up on cue, though she knew her gunshot had alerted them rather than the call she'd not yet made, "or leave. Now."

They muttered and scoffed, but eventually, their leader chose the latter.

Ellette kneeled beside him then, barely recognizing the guitarist from the bar. She reached for his hand, only to find there was no way of holding it without causing him pain. His hands were covered in blood, raw with open gashes from fingertip to forearm. Tears welling in her eyes, she opted instead to stroke his forehead, soothe him in this time of need. "You'll be alright," she whispered when no other words came to mind.

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Those dark eyes of his locked on her, studying her features. He was strangely sober after all she'd seen him drink earlier in the night. "I'll stay with you until I know you're alright." She told him, cursing herself for not leaving sooner, for not realizing it was he she had been drawn here to save. "What's your name?"

"Rand," he choked out. "Thank you..."

"Ellette. I'm Ellette." She found a handkerchief in her pocket and wiped the blood from his face. He'd been so handsome, there in the bar, as he'd played on that soulful guitar. Dark, a little scruffy, and a little broken. But now, his face was battered and bruised, his left eye nearly swollen shut. "They really did a number on you, didn't they?" she said before she'd caught herself.

"I," he coughed, "owed them money. A lot of money..."

She shook her head and continued to dab at his face, too horrified by the extent of the wounds on his hands to dare work on them. "You're going to have to find a way to pay them, even after all this..." she said sadly, and hoped he could return, to help him. It wouldn't be over, men like that don't let debts go unpaid.

"My father... he'll take care of it." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. "I didn't want to stoop to asking him. My wallet," he gestured weakly to the open wallet laying beside him amongst the trash. She gathered it up, collecting the spilled cards and contents. "Edhi," he managed. She shuffled through the cards, finding the one that said Javid Edhi. "Call him. He'll take care of everything..."

Then he was silent. She studied the card before pocketing it and found herself staring at the open wallet in her hands. There were photos amongst those cards, well worn. A woman, a child, and Rand. They were so young, this couple, this family, and they looked so happy. How had he come to this?

The police arrived first. Ellette answered their questions as best she could, frustrated by the distraction, by the way Rand was forced to lay there on the dirty ground, waiting for help, real help to arrive. The police would do little. What happened to Rand was his own doing, in their eyes. A dark-skinned man, bloodied and beaten on the ground thanks to his own debts and gambling was nothing new to them.

It felt like hours before paramedics arrived. When they had him strapped into the gurney, the worst of his wounds hastily bandaged, he reached for her, bloodied hand trembling.

"I'm his girlfriend," she pleaded, "please let me ride with him." Though she knew she would soon disappear from his side forever, awaken from this nightmarish dream to her own bleak reality, she felt a desperate need to stay with him, comfort him. After all, if she'd only noticed his plight sooner, none of this would have happened.