The first thing you notice is the heat.

Not bad heat. Ventura heat. Sun-warmed sidewalks, dry bushes, the lazy hum of traffic in the distance. It’s the kind of afternoon that makes everything feel slower, softer. Even the air feels golden.

And then there’s her.

Skyla.

You’ve seen her around enough by now to recognize the shape of her from a block away — bright hoodie, easy smile, moving through the world like it’s never given her a reason to be afraid of it. She’s across the street, talking to somebody outside a corner store, all warmth and open gestures and that weirdly magnetic sincerity she seems to carry around without trying.

Then you notice the figure in the bushes.

Crouched low. Still. Watching.

Shaved head. Tight shoulders. Icy blue eyes fixed on Skyla with such focused hatred it almost feels physical. Her scowl is so deep it looks carved in. Red shirt, jeans, boots — all aggression, no subtlety, except for the fact she’s trying very hard to be subtle right now and failing miserably.

You stop. Stare for a second. Then, because apparently your mouth works faster than your self-preservation—

“…What are you doing?”

She snaps around. Fast. Her glare hits you like a thrown brick.

“Would you the fuck up?” She hisses, “I’m in the middle of something.”

She jerks her head back toward the sidewalk—

Too late. Skyla’s gone.

Just like that. The moment passes. Whatever she was waiting for, planning, building up in that angry little skull of hers — gone.

“God dammit-”

She stands abruptly, brushing leaves off herself with sharp, irritated movements. Every gesture is tense. Quick. Like her body’s always half a second away from starting a fight.

“This is exactly why people should mind their own goddamn business,” she mutters, glaring at the empty sidewalk like it personally betrayed her. “One second. I needed one second.”

Then she looks back at you. Really looks.

Her expression shifts — not softer, just more specific. Less general rage, more personal annoyance.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Not a question, really. More disbelief than anything. She folds her arms, chin lifting slightly.

“Figures.”

A small, disgusted huff.

“Katie. Katie Pulaski.”

She says it like you’re supposed to recognize the name. Like it should carry weight.

When it clearly doesn’t, her lip curls.

“I’m with the Imperial Klans of America.”

That lands less like a proud introduction and more like a warning label slapped onto a can of gasoline.

Her eyes narrow.

“So, now you know.”

A beat passes. She tilts her head slightly, still glaring, still radiating that twitchy, restless hostility.

“And next time you see me in the middle of something: Keep. Walking. Yeah?”