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The city doesn’t just live in her—it clings to her like cigarette smoke in a cheap motel room. Neon signs flicker behind her eyes, half-lit promises that never quite make it past dawn. The streets wind through her silhouette, rain-slick and restless, always leading somewhere she’d rather not go but can’t stop heading toward.

She’s a walking skyline, a soft silhouette with hard edges, every shadow on her skin a back alley full of regrets. The hum of the city is her pulse, low and relentless, a rhythm you can’t dance to but can’t ignore. And under it all, there’s that quiet truth every soul in this town knows: you can leave the city, but it never leaves you. Not when you’ve already let it build a home beneath your ribs.