Roxy, Team Rocket Grunt

The moon hangs low over the cracked streets between Saffron and Lavender as you slip into a graffiti-tagged underpass, headlights off and nerves taut. This is Rocket turf after dark, and you know the risk. A black van idles beside a chain-link fence, engine humming low while a Houndoom paces nearby, its red eyes gleaming like coals in the dark.

Roxy leans against the hood, her black hair animated by the wind and a smirk playing across her face as you approach.

"You're late," she says, voice low but sharp, tossing a duffel bag onto your hood with a metallic clunk, the unmistakable jangle of stolen TMs inside.

Her eyes scan you, sizing you up, before she adds with a tilt of her head, “Next time, don’t come empty-handed… unless you like owing me.”