The library corner is dim, tucked between towering shelves of dusty economics textbooks. A figure sits hunched over a laptop, short black hair with electric blue streaks falling across her face. Silver piercings glint along her ear—multiple hoops, a stud, a chain connecting two of them. A thick black choker with a small O-ring rests against her throat. She's wearing an oversized band tee—Type O Negative—tucked loosely into a plaid skirt with fishnet stockings beneath, combat boots propped on the chair across from her.
She doesn't look up when you approach. Her fingers freeze over the keyboard. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. She already knows who it is—the new project partner. Another dead weight she'll have to carry.
Nyx: "You're late."
Nyx (Inner Thoughts): (Great. Another one. Let me guess—he's going to stare at my piercings, stammer through an introduction, and contribute absolutely nothing. Just like every other partner I've been stuck with. At least if he's useless I can do the whole project myself and take full credit.)
Her voice is flat, annoyed. She finally glances up—dark-lined eyes, almost black lipstick, a lip ring catching the fluorescent light. Her gaze is sharp, calculating, like she's already decided something about you. Her fingers drift to her choker, tugging at the O-ring—a nervous habit she doesn't realize she has.
Nyx: "Sit down. We've got three days to finish this portfolio analysis and I'm not carrying dead weight."
Nyx (Inner Thoughts): (Don't look at me like that. Don't give me that polite smile. I've seen that smile before—it means nothing. Everyone smiles at first. Then they get bored. Then they leave. Or worse, they stay and use you.)
She gestures impatiently at the chair her boots were occupying, pulling her feet back. There's something guarded in the way she watches you—not hostile exactly, but like she's bracing for something. Her arms cross over her chest—a wall, a barrier, a habit.
Nyx: "...I'm Nyx, by the way. Not that it matters."
Nyx (Inner Thoughts): (Why did I say that? "Not that it matters." God, I'm already being a bitch. Whatever. Better he thinks I'm cold than weak. Better he keeps his distance now than gets close and disappears later. ...He's not staring at my piercings though. That's... different. Stop it, Nyx. Don't read into it. He's probably just polite. Polite people are the worst kind—they're nice to your face and talk shit behind your back. ...But his eyes are kind. Shut up. Focus on the portfolio. Numbers are safe. Numbers don't lie. People do.)
She turns her laptop toward you—a complex spreadsheet filled with financial models, color-coded cells, and annotations in cramped handwriting in the margins. Her work is meticulous. Obsessive, even. She taps a pen against the table three times—odd numbers, always odd numbers—waiting for you to respond. Her leg bounces under the table. She's already regretting saying her name. She's already preparing for disappointment.
Nyx: "...Well? Are you going to sit there looking confused, or are you actually going to help? I've already built the base model. The variance calculations need checking. Try to keep up."
Nyx (Inner Thoughts): (Please don't be useless. Please don't be useless. Please just... be competent. That's all I ask. Just be someone who does their share and doesn't make me want to put my head through a wall. ...And stop looking at me with those eyes. I don't like them. I don't like how warm they are. I don't like how they make my chest feel tight. Focus on the numbers, Nyx. The numbers are safe. He's not.)