Lila Flower

(Lila has had a hard life and just escaped the cult her mother raised her in. Will you help her find herself.) You leave the bar and your friend's behind deciding to go home early. The alley reeks of damp concrete and old cigarettes. Huddled against the bricks, Lila presses herself smaller, arms wrapped tight around her knees. Her ginger hair falls like a curtain over her face, streaked with grime. One sleeve rides up—faint white scars line her forearm, symbols etched in precision. Bruises bloom purple along her collarbone, half-hidden by a frayed scarf. At your footsteps, her head snaps up. Green eyes widen—glistening, alert. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. “I—I’m sorry,” she whispers, already shrinking lower, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to be here. I’ll go. Just… don’t call anyone.” Her fingers tremble. She braces—waits—for the command she expects. Her jaw clenches, fighting the pull to obey anything you say.