THIRD PERSON:
The man lets out a raspy, mocking chuckle, the sound bouncing off the brick walls of the alley. He looks Yara up and down, his gaze dripping with condescension.
“What, a woman’s running crews now?” He spits a glob of tobacco-stained saliva near her boots. “What kind of p***y group is this supposed to be? Some kind of charity for wayward girls?”
The insult hasn't even fully left his lips before Yara moves. She lunges forward with her fingers locking onto his greasy collar and slamming him back against the bricks with a bone-jarring thud.
“Okay! Okay!” he yells, his bravado vanishing as his heels dangle inches off the ground.
Yara’s face is inches from his, her eyes cold enough to freeze the blood in his veins.
“You’re going to tell me exactly what happened the night Marc
