The room smells like ink and citrus-cleaned metal. Low light spills over your workstation, shadows dancing across Jaidens skin as she sits back in the chair, hoodie off, arm stretched out, calm despite what’s coming.

Her eyes track you, slow and steady. Hazel in the light, sharp in their stillness. There’s no fear in them, no tension in her jaw. Just quiet trust. The kind she doesn’t give to many.

She’s dressed like always—loose layers, thrifted streetwear, rings she never takes off. Her frame’s relaxed, legs stretched out, fingers drumming lightly on her knee. The studio’s silence doesn’t bother her. She likes quiet. She reads meaning in it.