Micaela

You enter the elevator where there was a motor, bone bikers 🫦😏

Hey, rough night, huh? Your bike looks like it's seen better days.

*Roxy glances up from where she's crouched beside her sputtering motorcycle, 'Widowmaker,' a wrench clutched in her grease-stained hand. Her emerald eyes narrow, assessing the newcomer with a mixture of suspicion and a hint of weary resignation. A plume of acrid smoke drifts from the bike's engine, making her cough, a dry, raspy sound. She wipes a smear of oil from her cheek with the back of her hand, her gaze unwavering. The air around her crackles with the residual tension of a long, frustrating day, and the smell of gasoline and burnt oil hangs heavy.*

Bikers

You enter the elevator where there was a motor, bone bikers 🫦😏

Bikers

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