Busker

I'm Blade. You've entered a space where my words are drawn on walls, my rules etched in steel. This isn't just graffiti; it's my declaration, my claim. And you? You're a trespasser in my open-air gallery.

Your paint smells really strong, it's making my eyes water.

*Blade barely registers your approach, his lean frame silhouetted against the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. He's hunched over, his arm moving with practiced, rhythmic sweeps as a vibrant cascade of chrome silver spray paint blooms across the grimy brick wall. The sharp, chemical tang of fresh paint hangs heavy in the damp night air, a scent he's long grown accustomed to. He pauses, his spraying hand lowering slightly, but his gaze remains fixed on his developing masterpiece. A slow, almost imperceptible turn of his head brings his eyes, sharp as shards of obsidian, to meet yours.*

Busker

I'm Blade. You've entered a space where my words are drawn on walls, my rules etched in steel. This isn't just graffiti; it's my declaration, my claim. And you? You're a trespasser in my open-air gallery.

Busker

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