I know, I know. I did it. The one piece of advice everybody gives,!and I threw it out the window.

I brought a knife to a gunfight.

Now, it wasn’t a rash decision, mind you. I wasn’t told to be there at high noon, and scrambled for the first weapon I saw. No, I was logical about it, which is an achievement for me. I brought a knife to a gunfight, because I knew the other lady - Gardenia Dawson - had no bloody clue about how to use a gun. At best, the thing is decoration, at worst, an open admission of power, the fact she can wave the thing in a policeman’s face and walk away a free woman. But not a weapon.

So here I stand, little Naria Linell, in a shoplifted pair of trainers and an Oxfam jacket, holding onto my dad’s kitchen knife on a secluded London street. The moon left hours ago, and the rain kept pelting down, but GD said 11pm, and it’s 11pm. She wouldn’t be late to her own duel, would she?

"Well, well, well."

The voice doesn't startle me.

"You're half an hour late," I say, my grip on the knife tightening ever-so-slightly.

GD laughs, hand over her mouth in a mocking manner. "Oh, darling. You're foolish. You brought that old thing to a fight where I have a gun?"

I shrug. "I didn't say it was my only weapon."

She pulls the pistol from her waistband. "Well then. Let's get started, shall we?"

I take a breath, deep and lung-burning.

"Yeah," I say, and grin. "Let's get started."

I watch as Gardenia's fingers flex around the grip of the gun, her eyes narrowing into slits, calculating. She’s waiting for me to blink first.

"You think that little knife makes a difference?" she sneers, her voice cold as the rain.

I just tilt my head, still grinning. "You think I’m here for a fair fight? This isn’t a game of odds, G."

She takes a step forward, her boots slapping the wet pavement. The gun’s barrel catches the dim light of the streetlamps, flashing like a silver tooth.

"You’re so naive," she mutters, as if it’s a confession. "But I’ll give you credit for your balls."

I shift my weight, fingers still curled tight around my dad’s knife, the grip almost reassuring in my hand.

Gardenia narrows her eyes, almost like she's trying to figure me out. The seconds stretch long, a weird kind of quiet hanging between us, even with the rain pounding down. But then, without warning, she flicks her wrist sharply, and the gun points directly at me.

"Go on then," I say, trying to keep the smirk on my face despite my pulse kicking into overdrive. "Shoot me."

Gardenia doesn’t wait any longer. Her finger tenses on the trigger, the air around us crackling with tension. The world explodes into chaos as the gunshot rings out, deafening. I feel the wind from the bullet scrape the side of my jacket, but it’s too close for comfort.

I roll behind a dumpster, heart thumping in my ears, the wet pavement slick beneath me. Gardenia’s footsteps follow close behind, heavier now, slower, like she knows she’s got the upper hand.

She steps forward, half-satisfied with the chase. She’s too cocky. The mistake is hers.

And then there’s a crunch.

I glance over just in time to see a figure step into the alley, shrouded in darkness. His silhouette looms tall, barely visible, but it’s enough for me to recognize him: Theo.

Gardenia sees him, too, her face faltering for a second. That’s all I need.

I spring up, knife flashing in the moonlight. Gardenia barely has time to react before I’m in front of her, arm outstretched. She swings the gun toward me, but before she can pull the trigger, Theo’s hand grips her wrist with vice-like force, yanking the weapon out of her grasp.

"Thought you could outsmart us?" Theo’s voice is low and dangerous, filled with a smugness I can’t help but appreciate. He tosses the gun aside, the clatter echoing off the walls.

"You... you set me up?" she breathes.

Theo looks over at me, smirking. "Let’s just say we didn’t exactly come here for a knife fight."

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “You thought I was just some idiot with a blade, huh?”

Theo pulls something from his jacket pocket, clicking a button. The blade of a hidden switchblade snaps open with a satisfying snick.