They didn’t stop running for three blocks, ducking into the humid, steam-filled mouth of a narrow alley behind a row of bustling pojangmacha tents. The smell of sizzling dakkochi and soju was a jarring contrast to the cordite and blood clinging to them.

Alessandro shoved her against the brick wall, his body a shield between her and the street, his chest heaving. His hands came up, not to strike her, but to frame her face, his touch surprisingly gentle against the grime and dried blood. His ...