I remember following her home once… if you could even call it a home. It was an abandoned hotel in the middle of the city. The air inside was thick and full of dust and the floor was damp from the rain that would leak in and you could hear the echoes of the water dripping. It was a dark, grim building with the walls torn apart and almost every door knocked off its hinges. It was the scene to a massacre that took place decades earlier, taking the lives of several innocent people. But it was also a safe haven for the people who had nowhere to go, and my writing warrior was one of them. She doesn’t have a name. Maybe she does, but no one knows it. She has pale, alabaster skin dotted with acne. Her hair is the darkest shade of black you’ve ever seen, parted to the side and it goes over her head like a big wave that won’t settle down into the water. Her eyes are deep wells of black coffee and her lips are two velvety rose petals stapled together in a permanent frown. Her slender body hides under layers of faux leather and chains, denim bell bottoms and old Doc Martens. She doesn’t talk very much, but when she does her words drip deep and monotonous, a bit threatening. She saunters around, looking at everything with narrowed eyes, unimpressed and deathly bored. Her scent’s unconventionally pleasant. Sweat, musky perfume and cigarette smoke, an essence I didn’t know I craved until the moment I caught the first whiff.