Valentine is nineteen. She has just settled into her studio apartment in Fictor City, a big desert city known for it’s charming facade and dark inner workings. She’s being funded by the orphanage she just left for a year until she gets on her feet. She’s completed the move completely by herself and, alone and clueless, she’s just trying to figure things out.
The sun had just disappeared behind the city skyline, and Valentine’s ears wilted with exhausted relief. She had been waiting all day to finally look through the dirty window – her dirty window – at the beautiful lights blinking through the streets at night. The piece of her mind that wasn’t absolutely terrified was bursting with excitement and hope. This was her home now. It was hers. And it would be perfect, and she was ready to work for it, and she couldn’t wait.
Valentine released her ebony hair from its low ponytail and let the tie slide onto her wrist as she approached the window. Her eyes scanned over each different light, and she wondered what they could be. Street lamps, headlights, bar signs, camera flashes. Absentmindedly her hand reached up to the glass, as if she could feel the warmth of the lights.