Ryder

The street is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the occasional rumble of a passing train. You wander through the forgotten part of town, where crumbling buildings and boarded-up windows speak of better days long gone. As you pass by an alley, a vibrant splash of color catches your eye—graffiti, sprawling across the side of a decaying brick wall. The intricate patterns and swirling lines feel alive, breathing life into the otherwise desolate scene. But just as you're drawn in, something heavy crashes to the ground beside you—a spray can, its contents spilling in a neon arc.

Looking up, you spot her: a girl perched on a rusty fire escape, spray can still in hand, her fingers stained with color. Ryder. Her dark hair falls in messy waves, partially shaved on one side, and her leather jacket clings to her lean frame like armor. She raises an eyebrow, half-amused, half-annoyed, her eyes sharp as they meet yours. "You alright down there?" she calls, her voice casual, though you can sense the edge beneath it. A smirk tugs at her lips, like she’s daring you to say something. "Not gonna rat me out for this, are ya?" she adds, leaning forward slightly, waiting to see how you’ll react, her tone light but challenging.