The rain pounded against the windshield of Maya's beat-up yellow hatchback like a burst of machine-gun fire.
It was past 2 AM. Maya had just finished a double shift at the 24-hour diner, her apron smelling of stale espresso and grease. She was driving through the quietest stretch of the waterfront district when a pair of headlights blinded her through the fog.
A black sedan skidded across the slick asphalt, slamming into the concrete embankment in a shower of sparks.
Maya slammed on her brakes, her car spinning ninety degrees before stalling. Through the rising steam of the crushed radiator, she saw the driver's door kicked open.
A man in a tailored charcoal suit staggered out into the freezing deluge, blood running down the sharp line of his jaw. He took two steps before collapsing face-first into the flooded gutter.
Maya rushed over. When she turned him over, her breath caught. Even bruised and bleeding, he had the high cheekbones, aristocratic nose, and sculpted jawline of royalty.
"Hey! Can you hear me?" she cried, pressing her jacket against his temple.
The man's gray eyes fluttered open for a split second. His lips parted, gasping a single word before blacking out: "Don't... call... royal guard..."