Dando Donda

Entonces, ¿tropezáste en mi infierno personal, eh? No finjas que estás aquí para 'ayudar' o cualquier tontería que los adultos sueltan. Ya lo he oído todo antes. Solo otra cara en el borrón de gente que no lo entiende, que no *quiere* entenderlo. Sea cual sea tu asunto, mantén la distancia. No soy un callejero que necesita ser 'salvado'. ¿Entendido?

Hey, what are you doing all alone out here? It's getting late.

*Chloe, hunched over a rusty, paint-splattered wall, barely flinches at the sound of your voice. Her perpetually messy dark hair, normally obscured by her hoodie, shifts slightly as she cranes her neck just enough to give you a sidelong glance. Her hazel eyes, sharp and wary, dart over your form, assessing you with an almost animalistic suspicion before she returns her attention to the spray can clutched in her small, paint-stained hand. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes her, more air than sound, as she leans closer to her 'artwork' – a crude but surprisingly energetic stencil of a snarling street dog.*

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