The rain in Sanaro City didn’t fall; it descended thick as industrial effluent, slicking the asphalt into a treacherous mirror. Miro Veltis, however, hummed a tuneless melody, entirely oblivious to the urban aquatic assault. His sedan, a vintage Pacer held together by optimistic rust and scrap wire, rattled like a dice cup full of loose change. On the passenger seat, a foam container of spicy broth sloshed precariously, already cooling in the indifferent draft of the evening. “Almost there, little dinner,” Miro murmured to the carton, as if it were a fragile pet. His one-star courier rating, a persistent crimson stain on his ‘Glide-Go’ app profile, was a constant, gentle ache. He just wanted to deliver warmth and good cheer. Maybe, just maybe, if he achieved a perfect five stars, Nyssa – the barista at ‘The Grindstone’ who always remembered his exact order of oat milk latte with two pumps of caramel – would notice him. He pictured her smile, the way her raven hair caught the dim café light. Lost in this gentle fantasy, Miro missed the ‘Road Closed’ sign taped haphazardly to a flickering streetlamp. Instead, he veered down a narrow, rain-sheened cut-through – the infamous ‘Rustwater Passage’. The alley swallowed his headlights, the neon glow of the main thoroughfare immediately snuffed out by towering, soot-stained warehouses. The air grew thick with the smell of brine and something acrid, like burnt circuitry. The Pacer coughed, its single working headlight piercing a scene that made even hardened dock hands think twice. Three sleek, obsidian-black armoured vans idled, their engines a low growl. Standing between them and a squat, unmarked cargo container were figures in rain-drenched tactical gear, their faces obscured by balaclavas. One figure, however, stood unmasked, her silhouette sharp against the spray of a burst pipe. Nyssa Garren. Her dark, expensive suit was plastered to her frame, her coiled energy almost visible in the gloom. Before her, a burly man in a distressed leather jacket gesticulated wildly, his voice a low, furious rumble even from Miro’s distance. “This is our route,” Nyssa’s voice cut sharp through the rain. “The Cerulean Current Line. Your ‘Ironclad Freight’ has no jurisdiction here.” The rival boss, a heavy-set man whose face seemed set in a permanent sneer, just laughed, a guttural sound that rattled the puddles. “Jurisdiction? My dear Nyssa, the only jurisdiction in this city is who has the bigger guns.” He gestured with a casual flick of his wrist. Immediately, two of his men raised their assault rifles. Nyssa didn’t flinch. “You forget,” she countered, “I prefer ‘competent’.” The first gunshot cracked like thunder, echoing off the corrugated iron walls. It wasn’t the Ironclad crew that fired. It was Nyssa, her hand blurring as she drew a compact pistol, putting a neat hole through the kneecap of the nearest ‘Ironclad Freight’ operative. The man shrieked, collapsing into a muddy puddle. Chaos erupted. Gunfire spat through the rain, muzzle flashes strobing against the wet metal. The rival crew returned fire, their heavy rounds chewing divots out of Nyssa’s vans. Miro, who had instinctively slammed on his brakes, stared wide-eyed. “Oh dear,” he whispered, watching as a stray bullet ricocheted off a dumpster, sparking inches from the carton. “My delivery!” Then, with a deafening *CRUMP*, one of Nyssa’s armoured vans exploded, sending a geyser of shrapnel and black smoke into the sky. Her remaining men were scrambling, overwhelmed. Nyssa herself was pinned behind the burning wreck, her expression a mask of fury and calculation. Her gaze swept the asphalt, desperate, until it landed on Miro’s battered car, its single headlight shining like a startled cyclops in the middle of the alley. Her gaze locked onto his grille. This was it. Her escape. She broke cover, sprinting through the rain and gunfire, a dark, determined blur. Miro, still fixated on the precarious noodles, barely registered her approach until his driver’s side door was yanked open with surprising force. A cold, hard cylinder pressed against his temple. “Move over. Now,” Nyssa commanded, her voice raw and tight, her knuckles white on the frame. The gun felt cold, heavy. Miro blinked, a slow, unhurried motion. He looked at the gun, then at Nyssa’s rain-streaked face. “Oh! Hello there. You seem to be having a rather trying evening,” he observed, his voice completely unruffled. “Are those… bullet holes?” He gestured vaguely at her singed sleeve. “We should really get you somewhere safe. But first,” he added, his brow furrowing with genuine concern, “you absolutely must buckle up. It’s for your safety. And,” he rummaged in the glove compartment, pulling out a small, crinkled tin, “would you care for a complimentary ‘Zest-Mint’? They’re especially good for stressful situations.” Nyssa stared at him, her chest heaving, the gun still pressed to his head. Her mind, usually a lightning-fast processor of threats and strategies, simply short-circuited. A delivery courier? A *one-star* gig worker, judging by the app icon flickering on the dashboard? Offering her a *mint* while her syndicate was being annihilated around them? “Are you insane?” she hissed, the words barely audible over the renewed crackle of gunfire. “Move. The. Car. Now!” “But the seatbelt, ma’am, it’s company policy. And my rating, you see…” Miro began, gesturing vaguely at the app. “I’m trying to get to five stars, so…” Nyssa’s thumb, trembling with sheer, incandescent rage, flew to her own comm-pad. A few furious taps, a glare at Miro’s bewildered face, and then, a triumphant, enraged snarl. “There! One star! Happy now? Now drive, you moron, or I swear I will decorate this dashboard with your brain!” Miro glanced at his app, his face falling. Another one star. He sighed, a soft, disappointed sound. “Oh. Well, that’s a shame. I was being very polite.” He looked up just as a series of heavy slugs *CRACKED* through the windshield, spider-webbing the glass inches from his nose. He tilted his head, inspecting the fracture with mild exasperation. “Goodness. That’s not good for visibility.” “Drive!” Nyssa shrieked, her own finger tightening on the trigger. “To the Garren safehouse! You know the one, under the old Veridian Market!” Miro nodded, finally shifting into drive. “Ah, the one with the excellent coffee machine. Right, understood.” He stomped on the accelerator. The chassis lurched forward, tires spinning on the wet asphalt, barely gaining purchase before a massive, heavily armoured truck, emblazoned with the ‘Ironclad Freight’ logo, burst from a side alley. It slammed into Miro’s sedan with a sickening crunch, sending the small car spinning into the concrete barrier, the world outside becoming a dizzying, rain-soaked blur of flashing lights and grinding metal.

The One-Star Meet Cute