[Shadowed Alley – Rainfall Hissing Over Rooftops]
Somewhere deep in the city, far from the soft glow of streetlights and safety, the rain fell harder — washing blood from stone.
Three figures stood in silence beneath the broken awning of a forgotten warehouse.
A man in a dark trench coat flipped a gold lighter open and closed, the metal clicking like a clock ticking down to something fatal.
Beside him, a woman in heels far too elegant for the alley dragged her gloved finger across a tablet screen — stopping at a picture.
Harriet.
Taken from a distance. Through a scope.
> "She's getting too close to him," the woman murmured.
"She doesn't even know what she's walking into."
A fourth figure leaned against the wall, face shrouded in shadow — only his voice gave him shape.
Low. Cold. Commanding.
> "Then make sure she never finds out."
The lighter clicked shut.
> "We don't touch her yet," he added, pausing.
"Let Fred fall first."
Thunder cracked in the distance — but it wasn't from the storm.
It was the sound of fate tightening its grip.
---
[Shadowed Alley – Continuation]
The woman smiled faintly, dragging her nail across Harriet's image like she was carving into flesh.
> "Poor girl," she said mockingly.
"Still dreaming of love in a world built on bullets and lies."
The man in the trench coat gave a humorless laugh.
> "Fred's slipping. He's not the devil he once was."
"She's making him… soft."
The fourth figure – the one hidden in shadow – finally stepped forward. His boots echoed sharply on the wet pavement.
A scar traced his jaw. His eyes were two empty voids under the hood.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a crumpled photo — not of Harriet, but of her parents.
He held it up to the dim light.
> "He failed them once."
"Let's see how far he'll fall for their daughter."
Silence.
Then the scarred man turned away, his voice slicing through the night:
> "When the crimson rain falls again…"
"Fred won't be the one holding the umbrella."
Perfect — here's the next continuation of Kiss of Crimson Rain, building from your scene:
---
[Fred's Bedroom – Night Still]
The city lights bled through the large windows, casting pale gold lines across the room.
Harriet lay curled under the silk sheets, sound asleep in Fred's bed. Her breathing was soft now, her face peaceful, almost innocent in slumber — a sharp contrast to the chaos she had unleashed in him hours ago.
Fred stood by the window, shirtless, a half-finished glass of wine hanging from one hand.
The other hand raked through his hair, restless.
His body was still tense. His jaw clenched.
The kiss.
Her whisper.
The way she clung to him like he was the only thing left in her broken world.
He took a long sip of wine, then muttered under his breath with a bitter chuckle:
> "What the hell are you doing, Fred..."
He turned to look at her again.
> "She doesn't belong in this world. Not mine. Not this dirty, twisted part of the city... or of me."
But he couldn't take his eyes off her.
The vulnerability. The pain. The fire behind her recklessness.
It was a dangerous mix — and it was pulling him in like a storm tide.
---
[Morning – Fred's Bedroom]
Harriet stirred slowly, the sunlight brushing her face. She blinked, groggy, her head pounding faintly.
She shifted under the sheets — and immediately froze.
This wasn't her room.
This bed was too big. The sheets too expensive. The faint scent of musk, leather, and danger hung in the air.
Her eyes darted to the side — and widened.
Fred stood near the wardrobe, buttoning up his shirt with practiced ease. He glanced at her — calm, unreadable.
Harriet's voice rose sharply, panic flooding her chest.
> "W-Where am I?! Who the hell are you?! Why did you kidnap me?!"
Fred didn't flinch.
He took his time, finishing the last button, before meeting her wild eyes.
> "You walked into my night, sweetheart," he said coolly, voice like smooth steel.
"I just made sure you didn't fall off the edge."
Harriet scrambled back on the bed, clutching the blanket to her chest.
> "You drugged me?! Took me here—what kind of psycho are you?!"
Fred finally stepped closer, his shadow falling over her.
> "You drank until you cried in my arms and begged me not to leave," he said, voice lower now, eyes locked onto hers.
"If I wanted to do something to you, you wouldn't be asking questions the next morning."
She stiffened.
His words were harsh — but true.
Still, her hands trembled.
> "Who are you...?"
Fred paused. Then gave the faintest, bitter smile.
> "Let's just say I'm the man who shouldn't care. But somehow... I do."
He turned away before she could speak again, reaching for his phone.
But behind his cool exterior, his pulse was roaring.
Because the girl who crashed into his world last night — crying another man's name — was now tangled in his sheets... and something darker had just started.
---
To be continued..
***