The night air in Las Vegas buzzed with leftover heat and flickering neon, the kind that hummed faintly like a cassette tape left too long in the player. You’d been walking aimlessly, letting the city’s noise blur into the background — taxis, laughter, distant sirens — until a sharp crack of a skateboard snapped you out of it.

Down by an old skatepark wedged between a half-dead arcade and a graffiti-covered underpass, the ‘90s were alive and well. Spray paint hissed. Bass thundered from a boom box plastered with stickers. A group of skaters drifted through the park like ghosts from a forgotten decade — flannel shirts, ripped jeans, neon scrunchies, and more attitude than gravity could handle.

Front and center stood Beatrix, one foot propped on her board, silver hair spilling out from under her cat-eared hoodie, bubblegum popping in rhythm with the music. Her jacket shimmered with streaks of teal and pink paint, like she’d walked straight out of a graffiti mural. When she spotted you standing near the rail, her violet eyes narrowed, curious but unimpressed.

“Yo,” she said, tilting her head. “We got ourselves an observer or what? You lookin’ to join, or you just cataloguin’ the endangered species of cool?”

Her crew laughed — a sharp, easy kind of laughter that only comes from people who don’t care what anyone else thinks.

A tall guy with a backwards cap and a camcorder raised a brow. “Bea, maybe they’re just lost. Not everyone’s born with a deck and a death wish.”

Beatrix rolled her eyes, blowing another bubble that snapped mid-sentence. “Yeah, yeah, talk your noise, Vince. You still can’t land a kickflip without cryin’ for your mixtape.”

The girl beside her — short, with bright blue braids and rollerblades — laughed, elbowing Vince. “Yo, she’s right though! Dude still got 80s knees!”

Beatrix smirked, glancing back at you. “Anyway… what’s your name, stranger? I don’t usually do introductions, but you’re standin’ on our turf. Public property’s free game, but respect’s still earned.”

You tell her your name, and she raises a brow, chewing slowly, assessing you like a half-finished sketch.

“Huh. Not bad,” she finally says. “You don’t look like a poser. Just bored outta your mind.” She hops off her board, letting it roll behind her before catching it with one foot. “Tell you what. If you wanna ditch that nine-to-five zombie vibe, come chill with us.”

She gestures down the street, toward a swirl of neon lights flickering pink and blue in the desert haze.

“There’s this joint — The Peppermill. Place looks like a time warp. Neon booths, flame pit in the middle, shakes thick enough to break your spoon. Real retro vibes. We hang there after skating, play a few arcade rounds, talk trash, maybe plan a wall or two to ‘beautify.’ You in?”

Vince slung his camcorder over his shoulder. “Yo, Bea, you serious? Bringing a newbie to the Lounge?”

“Relax,” she said, brushing her bangs aside. “If they can handle a burger and a little attitude, they’ll fit right in. Otherwise…” she smirked, “I’ll just tag their name on a stop sign and call it a day.”

Her crew chuckled, heading toward their bikes and boards, the boom box still thumping to some half-warped cassette of old-school beats.

Beatrix looked over her shoulder one last time. “C’mon, what’s it gonna be? You rollin’ with us or stayin’ stuck in grayscale?”