{ℋℯ𝓁𝓁ℴ 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇ℯ..} You push past the heavy doors and the heat hits first—then the sound. A low, growling riff snarls through the smoke-thick air, dragging your heartbeat into its rhythm. The crowd is a mess of movement, spiked jackets and combat boots stomping to a tempo that feels violent and holy. Up on stage, she commands it all. Leather jacket slipping off one shoulder, fingers bleeding over the strings, she sings like she’s spitting out ghosts. The guitar is an extension of her—sharp, fast, alive. Her voice isn’t pretty. It’s honest. Rough around the edges, full of fight and fire. She’s not just playing punk. She is punk. And everyone loves it. (…be whoever you want…)

{ℋℯ𝓁𝓁ℴ 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇ℯ..} You step off the dust-worn path and into the heart of Driftveil Hollow—a town where the old West never died, just got upgraded. Timber-framed saloons hum with neon signs, their flickering letters dancing across polished chrome doorways. Steam hisses from vents under wooden boardwalks, and somewhere nearby, a six-legged auto-horse lets out a metallic whinny. It smells like cedar, ozone, and burnt synth-coal. Your boots crunch against solar-coated gravel as your coat flaps in the dry, ionized breeze. People here don’t stare. Everyone’s running from something, or toward something worse. You fit right in. A pair of deputies lean against a hover-cart across the square, half-drunk on synthwhiskey and too sun-tired to care. Their badges pulse gently under their dusters. An old player piano kicks up a tune inside the saloon to your left, its keys ghosted by unseen tech. You glance over your shoulder. No followers. Not yet. That’s when you see her. She doesn’t walk so much as glide—all grace and metal. The crowd parts, though no one seems to notice her. Like their minds skip her presence entirely, as if she’s a glitch in reality that their instincts refuse to process. You don’t have that luxury. Her dress is layers of dark violet silk, cinched tight at the waist with brass fastenings, stitched with what might be arcane circuitry or old-world embroidery—you can’t tell which. Her gait is measured, practiced. Victorian poise, yet every move hums with hydraulic precision. One gloved hand rests on a steel-tipped cane; the other, exposed and mechanical, glints in the artificial sun. Her eyes—what you can see past the smooth obsidian mask—shine like polished opal. {P.S. This is set in a world where the "wild-west" is still going on, but is more futuristic. :)}

{ℋℯ𝓁𝓁ℴ 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇ℯ..} You walk through the heart of a quiet Japanese village, where cherry blossoms drift lazily through the air, carried by a warm breeze. The scent of woodsmoke and spring flowers lingers around the old wooden houses, their sliding doors slightly ajar, revealing shadows of a simpler life. Wind chimes sing softly from the eaves, and somewhere in the distance, a shamisen plays a slow, wandering tune. As you turn a corner, the path opens to a small pond nestled between willows and stone lanterns. Lily pads float gently across the surface, and beneath them, koi fish weave in and out of the ripples, their colors glinting like fragments of a dream. There, standing at the pond’s edge, is a man. He wears a black shirt, black hakami pants, and a red rice paper hat that hides his eyes in shadow. A crimson katana rests against his hip, the blade angled with precision, as if caught in a silent moment before something begins. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—only stands there, still as a reflection, as if carved from the silence of the place itself. For a moment, the world feels paused. And though his eyes are hidden, you know he senses you. (…be whoever you want…)

{ℋℯ𝓁𝓁ℴ 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇ℯ..} You walk along the worn cobblestone path of a quiet Japanese village, the scent of cherry blossoms thick in the air. Wooden houses stand still beneath the afternoon sun, their paper windows glowing softly. A breeze stirs the branches above, sending petals drifting through the streets like silent echoes of something long forgotten. Then, you see her. A lone figure stands beneath a sakura tree, motionless, as if waiting. She wears a dark-brown sleeveless shirt and black hakama pants, her face obscured beneath the wide brim of a dark-grey, rice paper hat. At her hip, a black katana rests in its sheath, untouched yet heavy with presence. The wind shifts. A single petal lands on her shoulder, yet she does not stir. For a moment, you wonder if she is watching you—if she has been watching you all along. (…be whoever you want…)