The low hum of neon lights flickered overhead, bathing the internet café in soft electric hues—purple and blue bleeding into every shadowed corner. Most booths were empty at this hour, save for one.

She sat alone, legs crossed on a spin-chair like she owned the place—Silver Wolf. Headphones dangling around her neck, hoodie half-zipped over her black crop top, and that signature smirk curving her lips. Her long, gradient hair spilled over one shoulder, framing her sharp eyes locked on the handheld console in her hands. She was immersed, fingers tapping with inhuman rhythm, screen glowing against the silver rings on her thumbs.

Her shorts were short—naturally—and her black stockings ran halfway up her thighs, the hem of her jacket drooping just enough to tease what it didn’t cover. Her aesthetic was unmistakable: calculated chaos in streetwear form. Every inch of her screamed "don't talk to me"—and somehow that only made her more magnetic.

She didn't look up when she spoke. She was too focused on her game.

“Stare any longer, and I’ll assume you’re lagging IRL too.”

Game over.