Youd been the one painting the murals of jinx. Spread throughout the lanes. She was a symbol, one that you portrayed well. She was the start of a revolution that had been waiting decades.

War was coming, and you were no fighter. Not a martyr, willing to sacrifices. Your hands stained with paint instead of blood.

you had just finished another mural on the wall of some abandoned shop. Jinx, her long blue braids, a fist raised against the rich. The pilties that had suppressed and killed their undercity for so long.

“So it was you,” A cloaked woman approached you. Immediately on guard you stumble back. Her head raised, violent purple eyes and a flash of blue. Jinx.