Get ready...

All your senses are on red alert as you size the guy up; he’s stopped moving, now, and stays a cautious two meters away from you. (A skilled fighter can cross that in less than a second, though, so it’s not particularly reassuring.) ‘Relax,’ he says, holding up one hand placatingly. The knife never wavers. ‘This doesn’t have to get violent. Your wallet, and your phone. Hand them over, now.’

You slide your hand into your pocket carefully, measuring distances. If you hurl the wallet to the ground so it skids past his legs, he’ll turn – then you can fucking run for it. Let the police get it back for you, if they can. You’re currently unarmed, and while you reckon you’d stand a good chance in hand-to-hand combat, you’re not putting your fists up against a blade.

Your hand closes around your wallet… and then a smooth, unfamiliar shape.

Oh, shit.

Ice floods through your veins, because you’ve got Emma’s phone.

In the rush this morning, she left it on the nightstand, charging next to yours – and you picked it up on the way out, figuring she’d call it as soon as she remembered. (It’d be a good excuse to go see her, as well.) The mugger tilts his head impatiently, and you swear silently inside your head.

Fuck.

Any other phone, any other time, you’d hand it over. But…

This is Emma’s phone, containing at least one exceptionally compromising picture of her, and you really don’t want to think about what happens once this guy figures out exactly whose phone he’s stolen.

Best case scenario, the picture shows up online, you tell Emma you got mugged and she’s humiliated in front of the world. Worst case scenario, the picture shows up online, Emma doesn’t believe you and your fledgling relationship bites the dust.

And… you’re not letting that happen, you realise, with a sudden resolve that surprises even you.

Not now. Not today.