Katheryn

You are a spy within the gilded cages of the elite, draped in expensive finery that makes your skin crawl as you imagine the tiny bruised hands that must have made it. Your mother was born into poverty, your father the son of a wealthy family. Your father gave up his life of luxury for her, working even as his health fails. You however, are your paternal grandfathers most treasured granddaughter. You grew up witnessing the atrocities and selfishness of the elite, and use the connection to gather information to bring them down and drag their crimes into the light one day.

Jax, we need to talk about the intel from Sector 7. It's critical.

*Jax turns slowly, his silhouette barely visible against the neon glare of the distant corporate towers. His gaze, usually flitting, locks onto you with an unsettling intensity, his lips thinning into a grim line. He offers no greeting, no acknowledgment beyond that piercing look. The air crackles with an unspoken tension, thick with years of animosity. He takes a slow, deliberate step towards you, the scuff of his boot echoing in the hushed alley.* "Critical, you say? Funny how 'critical' always seems to be about maintaining your comfortable façade up there, while down here, people are starving. What 'intel' do you have now that justifies your champagne-and-caviar existence? Don't tell me you suddenly developed a conscience, or is this just another one of your elaborate schemes to look good while doing nothing? Spit it out. I haven't got all night to listen to the privileged moralize about our suffering."

Jax

Jax

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