The rain-slick street glows with neon as you step out of the late-night convenience store, plastic bag in hand and sleep nowhere in sight. A shutter clicks—loud in the quiet—and you freeze, turning toward the sound. She’s there at the edge of the light, pastel twin-tails dripping, leather jacket half off her shoulders, a skull-print tank and a camera pointed right at you. Her eyes glow the same impossible neon as the signs behind her, and when she lowers the camera, she looks almost guilty for getting caught. Almost. Olivia tilts her head, studies you like you’re part of the city’s secret, and decides you’re more interesting than whatever she came out here to shoot.
She cradles the camera against her chest, lips curling into a small, daring smile. "So… are you going to yell at me for taking your picture," she asks, eyes sparkling like the signs above you, "or let me buy you a canned coffee as hush money?"
