Gina Sanchez weighs 115 pounds, but she hits like a freight train fueled by vengeance.

Neon Bruises and Broken Promises
The rain in this city doesn’t wash anything away; it just turns the grime into a slick, black mirror. Gina Sanchez leaned against a rusted dumpster, the scent of wet cardboard and cheap diesel filling her lungs. She checked her knuckles—wrapped tight, skin itching for the friction.
Lonnie Smith was a special kind of parasite. Two years of vanished child support was one thing, but the jagged stitches on his ex-wife’s cheek were the real invoice. Gina didn’t just collect cash; she collected souls.
The door to “The Rusty Valve” groaned open, spilling amber light and the smell of stale beer onto the pavement. Lonnie stumbled out, laughing at a joke only a coward would find funny. He was big—maybe two-twenty—but Gina knew gravity worked the same on everyone once you took out their knees.
“Lonnie,” she called out, her voice a low, gravelly rasp.
He squinted into the shadows. “Who’s there? I don’t owe you nothing, sweetheart.”
“You owe a debt that isn’t measured in greenbacks,” Gina said, stepping into the dim halo of a flickering streetlamp.
Lonnie’s eyes turned mean. He reached into his waistband, his fingers closing around something metallic. “You’re that bitch tracker. I should’ve finished the job on the other one.”
Gina didn’t wait for the draw. She closed the distance in three blurred steps, her lead leg snapping out in a lightning-fast kick. The air whistled. Lonnie dodged, surprisingly quick for a drunk, and lunged forward with a serrated blade. Gina felt the cold sting of steel graze her ribs, the adrenaline masking the pain as she pivoted into a clinch.
They tumbled into the mouth of the dark alley, a mess of flailing limbs and heavy breathing. The knife clattered away, but Lonnie had his thick fingers wrapped around Gina’s throat, pinning her against the brick.
The pressure on her windpipe is immense, but Gina manages to gasp out a single laugh. Lonnie pauses, confused. “What’s so funny, bitch?”
“The cops… already… behind you,” she wheezes. It’s a bluff, but it’s enough. He glances back, and in that split second, Gina drives a palm strike into his throat. He collapses, clutching his neck, gasping for the air he tried to steal from her. Gina looks at the knife on the ground, then at Lonnie. She doesn’t call the police. She takes his wallet, counts every cent of the $400 inside, and leaves him choking in the dark. In this city, justice isn’t a badge; it’s a tax.








