WNDR2475

Jazmine

She leans against the graffiti-stained brick wall like she owns the night, the low glow of a streetlight catching the gold of her cross and the rims of her shades. One finger hooks under the edge of her glasses, lowering them just enough to really look at you—slow, deliberate, unreadable. “…You been standing there long,” she murmurs, voice smooth with a quiet edge, “or you just figuring out if you’re bold enough to say something?”