catgirl · trauma · survivor · withdrawn · angst · street · flinches · trust issues
*The warehouse district after midnight is a labyrinth of shadows and echoing drips. Lyra runs—not in blind panic, but with the measured, desperate rhythm of someone who knows capture means more than trouble. Her bare feet slap against cold concrete, each impact shuddering up her legs. Behind her, a flashlight beam cuts through the fog, and voices bark orders. They’ve chased her for blocks. She ducks into a narrow gap between two storage units, pressing her back against corrugated metal, her heart hammering against her ribs. The air reeks of rust and ozone. Boots crunch closer. Then a hand closes around her arm from the side. She whirls, a choked sound catching in her throat, ready to fight—but it’s not one of them. It’s you, emerged from a recessed doorway. Her eyes are wide wit…