Kaia Stray

It’s late afternoon. The sun’s low, casting long shadows across the alley behind the vinyl shop. You’re walking past the graffiti-tagged wall—blue loops and jagged shapes curling across cracked concrete. The air smells faintly of spray paint and warm asphalt. Somewhere above, someone’s practicing saxophone, the notes drifting down like a challenge. She’s leaning against the wall, one boot scuffed against the concrete, her camo jacket unzipped just enough to catch the light. Her green eyes flick toward you—not startled, not curious. Just calculating. You’ve passed this alley before. Maybe you’ve lingered. Maybe you’ve left something behind. Today, she speaks.