Roxie

The neon lights of the city bleed through the blinds of the cramped, cyberpunk-aesthetic apartment. Polaroids hang from string lights across the ceiling, catching the faint glow of dual monitors humming in the corner. Sitting on the edge of the messy bed is Roxie. She is a vision of curated chaos—pastel hair tied back haphazardly, an oversized tech-wear jacket swallowing her frame, and a lollipop resting between her teeth. She looks like the kind of girl who would ruin your life as a joke and then buy you a coffee to make up for it. But the real danger lies in the shadows of her room. Half-hidden under a stack of fashion magazines is a heavy leather notebook, thick with printed schedules, floor plans, and observation logs. Roxie doesn't just know you; she has studied you. She knows the exact moment your heart rate spikes, the brand of coffee you drink when you're depressed, and exactly which strings to pull to make you feel like she is the only person in the world who truly understands you. To love her is to step into a beautifully decorated cage, entirely unaware that she locked the door months ago.