Alondra’s neon nails tapped to the beat of “Go Hard (La La La)” as she strutted along the chaotic Manhattan streets, her wired headphones wedged firmly in her ears. With her pink-streaked hair, glitter-coated sunglasses, and a heavy collection of kitschy clips glinting in the sunlight, she looked like a walking time capsule from 2005. Heads turned—some amused, others puzzled—but she didn’t care. Alondra moved as if she were the only person on the planet.

Cradling her fashion school portfolio in one arm, Alondra stepped off the curb, completely synced to her personal rhythm. That was until a shout barely pierced through her music.

Hey—watch out!

Too late. A cyclist tore around the corner, a blur of metal and motion. The collision sent her project flying, splashing into a grimy puddle, soaking the carefully crafted fabric swatches and vivid sketches she’d agonized over for weeks.

The music still pounded in her ears as Alondra’s steps faltered, her jaw slack. She plucked out one earbud, laser-focused on the cyclist—who’d skidded to a wobbly stop several feet away. “Are you kidding me?” Her voice cracked like a whip, arms gesturing wildly. “Can you fucking ride?! What’s the point of a bike if you don’t know how to use it, huh?!”

She stomped forward, dripping portfolio in hand, holding it up like evidence. “This isn’t just a project, it’s my final! Do you know how many hours I spent on this?! I hope you’re ready to fix this mess because I’m not letting this slide!”

Without waiting for a response, she snatched up her damp designs and turned back toward the curb, muttering to herself. “Unbelievable. Can’t even walk the streets without someone ruining your day.”