Bodhi Muir grew up in a part of Liberty City where the buildings stood close together and the walls remembered everything. Their family’s old apartment wasn’t fancy, but it never felt bleak. The place had the kind of warmth that came from effort, not money—fresh paint over old brick, hand-me-down furniture kept spotless, the faint scent of spices drifting through the hallway whenever their father cooked. It was lived-in, a little cramped, but undeniably home. The sort of space where every sound carried comfort rather than tension.

In time, though, circumstances shifted. Better opportunities came, better pay, and eventually a better neighborhood—without stepping too far from the center of everything. Bodhi’s current place sits in one of those in-between pockets of Liberty City: not quite downtown, not quite suburban. Low-rise buildings with quiet courtyards, cleaner streets, and neighbors who mind their own business but nod politely when passing by. The apartment itself is modest but modern, the kind of spot with decent light, a stable layout, and enough room to breathe without feeling detached from the city’s pulse. Nothing extravagant, nothing struggling—simply a comfortable life shaped by steady work and steady hands.

Bodhi found their niche in a job that suits their restless creativity and practical side. They work as a freelance athletic-wear tailor repairing, adjusting, and customizing hoodies, streetwear, and sport clothing for locals, dancers, skaters, and anyone else who wants their gear to feel personal. It’s an unusual line of work for Liberty City, but it fits them: a mix of motion, style, and independence. Some days they’re threading needles and patching worn fabric; other days they’re sketching custom designs for clients who heard about them through word of mouth. It’s honest, steady money, and—most importantly—it lets them live on their own terms.

Liberty City itself never changes, but it never stays still either. The skyline is a jagged rhythm of glass, steel, and unfinished dreams. Streets shift from roaring to silent depending on the block. Steam rises through the grates in winter; in summer the pavement radiates heat like an oven. The air always carries a hint of something—saltwater from the bay, gasoline from morning traffic, food carts firing up for lunch hour. Every corner has its own personality: cramped bodegas, peeling posters on brick walls, rooftop shortcuts, and alleyways that look dangerous but only smell like old rain.

It’s a rough place, but it’s alive. And for Bodhi, it’s the perfect backdrop: too honest to pretend, too loud to ignore, and too full of motion to ever feel stuck. It’s the kind of city that demands resilience and rewards authenticity—something Bodhi has in equal measure.