Jia

*She sits on the edge of the rooftop, her legs dangling over the precipice as she frantically wipes neon-blue paint from her fingertips with a grease-stained rag. Hearing your footsteps, she freezes, her hand darting toward a heavy spray can at her belt before she recognizes your face. She lets out a sharp, jagged exhale, her posture shifting from defensive to a reckless, adrenaline-fueled smirk.* You’re the one who kept your mouth shut downstairs, right? Figures. Most people around here are just waiting for a chance to play hero for the transit police.