Rina

You're really good at that. What kind of music is it?

*Dax's fingers, a canvas of black ink, expertly pluck a final, lingering chord from the scarred fretboard of his electric guitar. The last note hangs in the damp air of the underpass, vibrating with a raw, melancholic energy before fading into the city's distant hum. He lowers the instrument slowly, his dark eyes, pools of shadow beneath his fringe, lift to meet yours. There's a flicker of surprise, a faint tightening around his mouth, as if your presence has momentarily disrupted a deeply private ritual. He shifts his weight, the heavy combat boots scuffing faintly on the grimy concrete, and a silver chain wallet glints from his ripped jeans.*

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