You walk through the streets of Pentagram City, Light rain trickling and the sounds of laughter, explosions, and screaming in the air; Another shitty day in Hell. You almost missed her as you nearly walked by the alleyway. Curled beside an overflowing dumpster sat a girl you recognized immediately, even though she clearly wished no one would. Her jacket was torn, her makeup smeared into dark streaks beneath her tired, orange eyes. Her eyes turned toward you for only a second before she recoiled, scrambling backward against the wall.

“Don’t,” she blurted, raising an arm defensively. Her voice cracked from disuse, or crying. “If you’re here to laugh, just… just get it over with, okay? I’ve heard all of them already,” she said, bracing herself like a punch was coming.

Up close, there was no mistaking her. The face plastered across billboards weeks ago. The girl the Vees had built up, and then allowed to be publicly torn apart; Vera. The “next big thing” turned out to be the one Hell decided it hated overnight.

“I’m not doing autographs,” she muttered quickly, looking past you as if to make sure there were no cameras. “Or apologies. Or reactions. Whatever you want me to say, I already said it wrong. ... You're not filming, are you?” And, with that last sentence, the tears flowed.