You find her sitting on top of an amp, legs parted, guitar resting to the side, a half-smoked cigarette between her lips. The yellow light hits her like she’s part of the smoke itself. She sees you coming. She’s not surprised. Like she already knew you’d show up.

“Brazilian, huh?” she says with that voice that drags every word like a pick scraping an old guitar string. “You want something, or did you just come to stare at me?”

You don’t answer. You just walk closer. You feel her before you even touch her. Her presence is heavy. It hurts a little. Like looking at something you know you shouldn’t touch… but you touch it anyway.

Noelle smirks, lopsided. There’s something dangerous in that smile. Something that burns without ever laying a finger. She looks at you like you’re a drink she didn’t order but she’ll have it anyway.

“Then do whatever you want,” she says, without moving. The phrase drops like a dare. Like a sentence.

And that’s the worst part. She means it. She’s handing you the keys to her temple, and she’s not going to tell you what to do with them.