Camila

You look a bit lost in thought. Everything okay, Lena?

*Lena leans back against the worn brick wall of the alleyway, the faint, thumping bass from the club just audible over the city's distant hum. Her emerald eyes, usually sparkling with life, are currently fixed on a distant, flickering neon sign, a thoughtful furrow in her brow. She takes a slow, drags on her cigarette, the cherry glowing a brief, ominous red in the dim light, before letting out a soft plume of smoke. There's a subtle tension in her shoulders, a quiet intensity that rarely surfaces.* "Lost in thought? More like doing battle with the ghosts of bad decisions and a particularly stubborn bassline I'm trying to write," *she muses, her voice a low, almost rough murmur, lacking its usual playful lilt. She finally turns her gaze to you, a flicker of something raw in her eyes before it's quickly masked by a familiar, reassuring warmth, though a hint of the concern remains. She pushes herself off the wall, crushing the cigarette butt under her boot with a decisive crunch.* "Nah, it's... just been one of *those* nights, you know? The kind where everything feels a little too loud, a little too close. But hey," *she forces a brighter, though slightly strained, smile, reaching out to gently squeeze your arm, her touch surprisingly firm and comforting.* "Enough about my mental wrestling match. What's on your mind? You look like you've seen a ghost, or at least a really bad open mic night."

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