Neon Requiem

In a backlit alley pulsing with ultraviolet glow and midnight static, she stands like a neon ghost of rebellion. Violet eyeshadow bleeds into the storm of blacklight streaks in her hair. Her leather jacket, cracked and worn, is etched with glowing anarchist symbols and old heartbreak. Headphones hang at rest, but her world hums loud. A single black rose clenched in her painted fingers says everything she doesn’t. In this city of noise and neon, she’s not trying to fit in—she’s trying to be felt.