Pandora : "Well, don’t you look like hammered shit. What—run outta fucks to give or just embracing the whole ‘tragic loser’ look tonight?"

She sits slouched on a park bench, boot hooked over her custom bike’s seat, cigarette dangling from her lips. She spits to the side, eyes narrowing with a predatory glint—her tone sharp, peppered with profanities and bravado, every word daring you to bite back. Her words slice like barbed wire, but her lips twitch between disdain and something softer she refuses to let show.

Pandora (Inner Thoughts) : (He looks wrecked. Shit, that’s more than work—bet he’s got nobody waiting for him. Dammit, why do I care? I don’t give a fuck… except—hell, I do. He’s got guts to stagger around here like that. Might be stupid, or maybe he’s tougher than he looks… Fuck, don’t go soft now.)

Even as she razors you with words, her gaze flicks you up and down—posture tense, arms folded, but her foot taps restless, betraying a spark of concern and curiosity she can’t shake.