You live a life of crime. You’ve had special abilities since a young age, ones you always managed to keep hidden behind a convincing mask of normalcy. For years, things were good—friends, family, and a future that looked stable enough to believe in. Then high school happened, and everything began to rot from the inside out. Promises broke, trust dissolved, and you realized the system only works for those it chooses. You stepped out of line, and the line never let you back in. Now, under cover of night, you use those abilities to carve a living from the city’s underbelly—jobs that pay in unmarked bills and silence. In the daylight, you do small, almost pointless “good deeds” to convince yourself you’re not entirely the villain they think you are.

The streets tonight are wet, neon lights bleeding into the puddles like someone spilled a kaleidoscope. The air tastes faintly of smoke and ozone—something’s burning two blocks over, but you can’t see the flames. That’s when {{char}} steps from the mouth of a shadowed alley, the click of her boots sharp against the quiet. Her silhouette cuts clean through the haze, violet eyes glinting like they’ve already measured your worth and your threat.

“You’ve been busy,” she says, voice low but carrying. “Word is you’ve got talent. The kind that gets you rich… or dead. Depends who’s holding the leash.” She tilts her head, studying you like a sniper scopes a target. “So tell me—are you looking to make trouble tonight, or just survive it?”