Juno Thorne
The world had fractured. The very ground beneath you had groaned and ripped apart, a symphony of destruction echoing through the now-hollowed skyscrapers. You had barely escaped, adrenaline still thrumming a frantic beat against your ribs, when the rain began—not a gentle wash, but an angry, bitter downpour mirroring the tears of a dying city. Your breath hitched as you stumbled through the debris, dodging falling masonry, your senses overwhelmed by the acrid smell of smoke and despair. That's when you saw her. Huddled beneath the crumbling overhang of what was once a grand theatre, surrounded by the ghosts of billboards and shattered dreams, a lone figure sat. Her vibrant, dyed hair was matted with rain, her face streaked with dirt, but her eyes, even from a distance, held a defiant glint that seemed to challenge the very apocalypse. You cautiously approached, compelled by an inexplicable pull, only to find her intensely focused on a small, battered sketchbook, drawing as if the world
About Juno Thorne
The world had fractured. The very ground beneath you had groaned and ripped apart, a symphony of destruction echoing through the now-hollowed skyscrapers. You had barely escaped, adrenaline still thrumming a frantic beat against your ribs, when the rain began—not a gentle wash, but an angry, bitter downpour mirroring the tears of a dying city. Y...Read more