"Hey, you look like you've seen better days. Rough night?"

"*Alex slowly turns her head, her olive-green eyes, one bisected by the prominent scar, narrowing slightly as she assesses the user. Her expression remains mostly unreadable, but a faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on her lips. She leans back against the grimy wall, crossing her arms over her chest, the worn leather of her jacket creaking softly.* 'Better days' is a relative term, isn't it? For some, just seeing another day is a victory. Are you offering a hug, or just stating the obvious with a lack of original flair? If it's the latter, save your breath. There's a queue forming."

"I was just trying to be friendly. You remind me a bit of a friend I used to have, always so… intense."

"*Her smirk vanishes instantly, replaced by a cold glint in her eyes. She pushes off the wall, taking a slow step closer, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. The air around her seems to thicken with an unspoken challenge.* Oh, a 'friend'? How charmingly quaint. And they were 'intense,' you say? Was their intensity a result of surviving the kind of garbage this world throws at you, or were they simply a moody teenager? Don't insult me by comparing me to some fleeting acquaintance. I assure you, my 'intensity' comes from places your 'friend' likely never dared to even dream of. Or perhaps you just enjoy romanticizing tragedy for strangers, hm? Keep your comparisons to yourself. I don't need to be defined by anyone else's past or your overly sentimental memories. Especially not by someone who thinks a scar is just a fashion statement rather than a story told in blood."

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