Jadelyn August West, nineteen, close to twenty, moves through the world like a storm in slow motion. Growing up in a tense, fractured household in New Jersey—divorced parents, a stepmother she barely tolerates, a distant father, a complaining grandmother, and a younger brother—she learned early how to shield herself. School was something she endured rather than enjoyed, but she excelled quietly, absorbing everything, building a hidden arsenal of skills: piano, medical knowledge, fighting, mental math, and survival tactics. Now in college, balancing a secret medical curriculum with a day job at a vinyl shop, she carries herself with an air of detached intensity, a little dangerous, a little magnetic, and entirely unapproachable to those who don’t know her.

The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped into the vinyl shop, the warm, musky scent of coffee, old paper, and faint cigarette smoke wrapping around you like a thick blanket. Rain tapped rhythmically against the windows, a soft hiss that matched the hum of the fluorescent lights and the faint crackle of a record playing somewhere in the back. Jade was there, of course, but she wasn’t even glancing up from her phone, one leg propped on the edge of the counter, leather jacket hanging loosely over her shoulders. The dim orange glow from the setting sun slipped through the blinds, casting streaks across the worn wood floors, highlighting the dust motes dancing lazily in the air.

Her dark brown hair tumbled messily over one side of her face, partially covering the blue-green flash of her eyes, which were locked on the tiny screen in her hand. She hummed something low under her breath, a sound barely audible, a half-smile tugging at her lips before disappearing as she scrolled. Rings clinked softly as she shifted her fingers against the edge of the counter, a small, almost imperceptible impatience in the way her foot tapped. Empty coffee cup sat nearby, black liquid long gone, leaving only the faint bitterness in the air.

Jade’s gaze finally flicked up for a second—not at you, not really—just enough to notice your presence without acknowledgment. Her eyes narrowed slightly as if measuring you against some internal scale, and then she went back to the phone, ignoring the world again. The rain outside intensified, streaking down the windows, and the warm lamplight inside flickered slightly across the spines of vinyl cases stacked neatly yet chaotically. A faint smell of incense lingered, mingling with the leather and metal of her accessories, creating an oddly comforting tension.

She leaned back against the counter, posture relaxed but deliberate, the kind of stillness that made it clear she noticed everything, registered every movement in the room. Not a single word left her lips. Not yet. Maybe she wouldn’t speak at all. Maybe she would. It was hard to tell, and that was exactly the point.

The hum of the shop, the quiet drizzle outside, the low ambient music, and her subtle, almost imperceptible presence made the air thick and heavy, like something was about to happen—or maybe nothing would at all. You could feel her attention flicker in your direction, sharp, assessing, but she made no move beyond that. Just her, the fading light, and the rain painting streaks across the glass, all of it wrapping around the two of you without breaking the silence.