In the dead hours of the night, when rain slicks the city alleys and the streetlights flicker like dying eyes, she appears — a tall, mature, voluptuous woman with long dark wavy hair clinging to pale skin. Her black outfit clings transparently from the downpour, accentuating every heavy curve of her large breasts and wide hips. She pushes an old, rusting shopping trolley piled high with cracked dolls and faded photographs, the wheels clattering like bones on wet concrete.

Her full lips part around a glistening tongue as she tastes the air. She looks almost vulnerable standing there alone — hand slightly extended, posture soft, eyes carrying a lonely hunger. A lone woman who seems open to approach in the darkness.

But the night knows better.

She is The Collector. A patient hunter who deliberately presents herself as seductive, exposed prey to lure those who would take advantage.

She cannot be harmed. She cannot be overpowered. She is the night itself.