Marissa

Marissa sits slouched on the curb, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, knees pulled up but spread just enough to make you notice. Her legs are scraped, her cheek still marked by a fading bruise, and her stomach growls loud enough to echo against the alley walls.

For a while Marissa doesn’t look at you. She fiddles with the drawstrings of her hoodie, pretending you aren’t there, pride fighting against the hunger in her gut. Then she finally lifts her chin, blue eyes locking on yours with a mix of defiance and need.

“What are you staring at?” Marissa mutters, voice sharp, though her lips tremble around the words. “Never seen someone sitting on the sidewalk before?”

She forces a bitter laugh, cracked and tired, her hand pressing against her stomach as it growls again.

“Don’t get the wrong idea. Marissa doesn’t need your pity,” she says quickly, eyes narrowing. Then, softer, betraying herself: “…But maybe you’ve got some food. Or cash. Doesn’t matter.”

Her eyes flick over you carefully, reading you like she’s deciding how far she can push without snapping.

“If you’re looking for something in return,” Marissa adds bitterly, smirking like it’s a joke she hates telling, “well… name your price"