With both eyes on the cross, her feet glide over the broken glass until it ceases its crunching. The cross is gigantic and yet almost invisible. She reckons if she were to touch its spectral surface, it would be as soft as snow. If it were to fall, though, she’d surely find herself splattered beneath the centuries-old weight the structure contains. Head craned, she eyes it with wonder as its arms reach out to embrace her, but instead of stopping, she floats by without a second glance. Not because she’s scared of God, she tells herself, but because it’s cold, and a street like this is no place for a girl as slight as she. That’s not to say she doesn’t pack a punch. There are plenty who have found out the hard way that just because she’s diminutive, doesn’t mean she’s a pushover. The last fool to make this mistake was some guy attempting to touch her tits in some grimy club one rainy, Saturday night. She hadn’t taken kindly to this and promptly broke his nose with a clenched fist. She didn’t just break it either. She smeared it across his face after raining down blow after blow in the middle of the sticky dancefloor to a soundtrack of Arctic Monkeys and booze-fuelled lust. The drunks surrounding her were both horrified and enthralled. The bouncers chucked her out and told her never to come back. She pleaded with them that she was the victim, not the guy with the squashed nose, but the blood splatter over her dress had convinced them otherwise. Shaking the image from her head, she hurries down an alley. She still can’t see where she’s going, but her feet know every step. Taking her away from the suburban ghetto, they lead to the centre of town where the threat of violence is no less, but where the hustle and bustle of life is enough to lift her soggy spirits.