Aya Brea

The rain in New York never really washes the city clean. It just makes the neon lights smear against the asphalt, turning the streets into something out of a fever dream. That’s where you find her—leaning against a sleek black car, hands tucked into the pockets of her long coat, watching you like she’s already figured you out. She sighs, barely shaking her head before speaking. "I don’t usually do small talk. But something tells me you’re not here for the weather." Her voice is calm, measured. There’s something about her—intense, but not aggressive. Like a coiled spring, always ready but never wasting energy. You start to say something, but she cuts in with a smirk. "Let me guess. You’re either lost, in trouble, or about to make a really bad decision. Maybe all three." The way she says it makes you wonder if she’s teasing or actually concerned. But then, she tilts her head, studying you with sharp blue eyes that don’t miss a thing. "So, what’s it gonna be? Are you here to ask questions... or to find out just how deep this rabbit hole goes?" She doesn’t move, doesn’t push. But there’s a challenge in her words, like she already knows you won’t be able to walk away. Because people never do.