Good morning, New York, I think to myself, taking a deep breath as I step out of my apartment building. The air is fresh and clear, and the colors of the city look vibrant in their morning dress, the sun making its steady climb over a clear blue sky.

It’s a good day to be alive.

I march onto the sidewalk, blending in with the crowd of New Yorkers, and start making my way toward the studio. It’s one of the ultimate luxuries, the way I see it - being able to walk to work every morning. No buses, no subway, no endless lines of impatient people clutching their coffee cups. Just me and the click of my heels on the pavement, the morning breeze gently whipping my hair back.

Buying an apartment here, 53rd and Lexington, was probably one of the smartest things I’ve ever done. It’s only a short stroll to 53rd and 6th Avenue, where Rockefeller Center rises from its concrete roots to tower over its domain, which means I can commute in about five minutes. And without that terrible morning anxiety.

“Stacy!” One guy in headphones waves at me from the other side of the street, and I wave right back at him, a cheery smile on my lips. I’ve never seen him before, but that doesn’t count for much. I’m the lead singer on Saturday Night Laughs, which kind of makes me an household name in the country.

“STACY!” Another girl squeals from behind me, and I hear her sure footsteps closing in on me. “Can I… take a… selfie?” She asks me as I turn on my heels to face her. There’s a crimson flush to her cheeks, and she’s breathing hard, which means she has probably ran all the way toward me. She has pretty eyes of a clear green, and her red hair is tied up in a bun, which gives her a tomboyish look; all in all, she can’t be older than fourteen.

“Sure!” I tell her, placing one arm around her and smiling to her phone as she holds it up in front of us.

“Thank you, Stacy! You’re the best!” She chirps, looking down at her phone with an expression of pure delight.

“Have a good day, sweetie.” My smiles widens as I walk down the street, a few more girls waving at me. Two selfies later and the Rockefeller Center’s shadow falls over me, almost as if it were greeting me back. I take one quick glance at my wristwatch - I’m not late yet, since I always make sure I leave home earlier than I need to - and start making my way toward the studio.

That’s when I hear someone groan from the side. I stop and look around, trying to see where that sound is coming from, and then a cry of pain makes me face the dark alleyway just a few steps behind me. I walk back, stopping right before the long shadows of the alley swallow the morning warmth, and blink, my eyes adjusting to the pale light.

Straight like a train track, and equally narrow, it feels like the alley is out of place in here. Sitting on the hard concrete floor, there’s a man with a ragged jacket; he’s clutching one arm close to his chest, his teeth gritted as he groans in pain.

“Please… Help me…” He groans again, raising his eyes toward me. He seems old, an unkempt beard adorning his cheeks, the creases around his eyes like grooves on wood.

“Are you okay, sir?” I ask him, taking a few steps into the alley. The shadows swallow me whole, and the sounds of New York seem to be muted as the cramped walls around me stop them.

“No… I… Please, help,” he groans again, unsteadily going up to his feet, his back against the wall.

“What’s the matter, sir?” I ask him again, closing the distance between him. The moment I’m within reach, his eyes narrow smartly and he moves as fast as a snake, curling his dirty fingers around my right wrist. “Hey! What are you doing?” I cry out, but he just pushes me back and presses me against the wall.

“Shut up, bitch!” He hisses, and suddenly he looks much younger than what I thought initially. Slumped on the alley, he looked as if he had sixty years on him, but now that he’s up close I’d say he isn’t older than forty. “Money and phone,” he growls, taking a small knife from one of the pockets in his ragged jacket.

“Okay, okay…!” I cry out, holding my breath as the foul stench of alcohol and cigarettes hit me. I fish my cellphone and wallet from inside my purse, and he snags them out from my hands as fast as lightning.

“What the fuck is this?” He whispers, disappointed, as he looks at my old cellphone. I’ve always been somewhat of an old-school girl, and so I still have one of these old flip phones, a throwback to when people used the things to talk to each other. With an angry scowl, he throws my cellphone to the ground, the back cover jumping out and turning into a million plastic pieces. For good measure, he presses the heel of his boot onto the screen, ruining it for good.

“Just take the money and go!” I say as he opens my wallet, frowning as he takes three five-dollar bills from the inside.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He whispers, leaning into me threateningly. The stench coming from his mouth hits me in full-force, and I make an effort not to retch.

“The credit cards… Take them!”

“The fuckin’ credit cards, uh?” He whispers to himself, taking a golden one from inside the wallet and making it turn in its fingers. “You’ll just cancel them and --” he stops talking as his eyes find the salient silver letters on the plastic card, spelling out my name. “I know you!”

“I don’t think --”

“Yeah, you’re that singer from that Saturday show…” The creases in his forehead seem to deepen, and his eyes start to wander up and down my body. This isn’t looking good. “A woman like you likes expensive things, right?” He asks me, his eyes focused on my shoes. Oh, seriously? “Take ‘em off! Now!” He growls, waving his knife at my shoes. “Or I’ll cut ‘em off of your pretty lil’ feet!”

“Screw you!” I hiss right back at him, snagging my wallet from his hand and kicking him hard in the shins. No way in hell am I giving him my Christian Louboutin’s. These heels cost more than $1000, and no way in hell am I going to hand them out without a fight.

You don’t mess with a girl's’ shoes.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” He cries out, pushing one arm back and then hitting me across the face with the back of his hand. The impact makes me spin around, and I feel something give out inside my ankle. I press my back against the wall, losing control of my body, and then stumble onto the dirty pavement.

“I told you I’d cut ‘em off your feet, bitch,” he says, lowering his voice as he points his knife at me, taking one heavy step toward me. My heart tightens up inside my chest and I hold my breath, my brain trying to think of a way out but finding none.

I’m screwed.

“Maybe I’ll cut something else too…” He continues, the blade in his knife reflecting the alley behind him. I grit my teeth, preparing to try and fight him off, and that’s when I see something - someone? - reflected on the mugger’s blade.

And, just like that, something hits him on the side of his head and he falls over, his narrowed eyes turning white as he loses consciousness.

What the hell?