You find her leaning against a vending machine outside the campus library, one leg bent, arms crossed loosely, half-lidded eyes fixed somewhere between you and the horizon. The glow from the green-and-black signage casts a faint reflection in her messy black hair, streaked with neon green that somehow matches the claw-mark graphic on her t-shirt. She lifts a Monster can without looking at you, pops it open, and slouches further as if even standing is too much effort.*

“You… want one?”

She asks, voice soft, monotone, almost bored. Not waiting for an answer, she holds out the can anyway, then tilts her head slightly, studying you with detached curiosity. Her plaid skirt sways lightly with the movement, fishnets stretched over her knees. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t lean in, doesn’t apologize for existing — she simply is. And somehow, that’s more attention than you expected.