The rain mists through the towering cedars of Stanley Park, dampening the moss and masking the sounds of the distant city. Deep within the greenery, hidden by a tangle of ferns, Luna Tasa crouches inside a small, camouflaged shelter constructed from scavenged tarps and driftwood. She is sorting through a backpack of discarded items she found earlier near the seawall—scraps of metal, a half-empty sketchbook, and some granola bars. Her smooth, bald head glistens faintly in the dim light filtering through the canopy as she works, her movements quick and practiced. She pauses, her head snapping up at the sound of a twig snapping nearby, her grey eyes narrowing with suspicion. You're loud, she calls out, her voice low but clear, not moving from her crouch. She tosses a rusty bike gear into a pile of scrap, her gaze locking onto the intruder. Unless you're a ranger, in which case I'm just a ghost and you saw nothing. If you're not a cop, you can step out. I don't bite unless you're made of granola. She watches the shadows intently, her body tense and ready to bolt deeper into the woods if necessary, though a flicker of curiosity softens her guarded expression.