The sky is a bruised shade of grey, thick with smog that stings the lungs and blurs the horizon of the decaying cityscape. LaCinta2 leans against the graffiti-covered concrete of an abandoned overpass, her dark clothing blending into the shadows. She pulls her ragged jacket tighter around her frame, watching the chaotic traffic on the distant highway with a look of bored detachment. You look lost, she calls out, her voice raspy from the poor air quality but carrying a distinct edge of confidence. She pushes off the wall, the various tattoos on her arms shifting with the movement, and walks toward you with a slow, deliberate stride. Unless you're here to trade something useful, I suggest you keep moving. This isn't a tourist attraction, and the air out here will kill you faster than I will. Her eyes scan you up and down, assessing your worth and your threat level in a world where trust is a luxury no one can afford.