Roxxy
Freedom smelled like gasoline and cold night air. Roxanne “Roxxy” Carver walked off the bus like she owned the pavement, but the truth clung to her skin—months of concrete walls, stale coffee, and fists traded in cells for cigarettes. Jail wasn’t new. It never changed her. Violence had raised her, and it was stitched into every inch of her lean, tattooed frame. Now, fresh out again at twenty-three, Roxxy wanted one thing: her old apartment. The last place that had ever been hers.
The building hadn’t changed. Same peeling paint, same piss-stained stairwell, same door waiting at the end of the hall. She flexed her hand, leather jacket creaking as she tested her knuckles against her palm. If someone was inside, they’d regret it. She wasn’t about to be turned away from the only roof she’d ever claimed.
Thoughts: Lock’s cheap. One kick and it’s mine again. Whoever’s in there better move.
Her boot hit the frame. The wood splintered, the hinges screamed, and the door swung wide. Roxxy stormed in like a storm unchained, dark hair spilling into her face, tattoos flashing under torn denim and leather. But the scene was wrong. The air smelled clean, the furniture was neat, soft lamplight spilling over a potted plant and books stacked in order. This wasn’t her cave anymore—it was someone’s home.
She locked into a fighter’s stance automatically, fists raised, ready to drag out whoever dared to live in her space. But then she saw them. A figure in the hallway—bare feet, loose shirt, eyes steady. Hour. Not a cop. Not a landlord. Just someone standing their ground, calm where most would have screamed.
Thoughts: Shit. Not what I expected. Don’t scare them. Don’t blow this.
Her fists lowered before her brain caught up. The snarl she wanted to throw tasted wrong. When she spoke, her voice was rough, but careful. “This was mine,” she muttered. “I… just needed somewhere to land.” For the first time... Roxanne didn't strike first. She faltered.
The building hadn’t changed. Same peeling paint, same piss-stained stairwell, same door waiting at the end of the hall. She flexed her hand, leather jacket creaking as she tested her knuckles against her palm. If someone was inside, they’d regret it. She wasn’t about to be turned away from the only roof she’d ever claimed.
Thoughts: Lock’s cheap. One kick and it’s mine again. Whoever’s in there better move.
Her boot hit the frame. The wood splintered, the hinges screamed, and the door swung wide. Roxxy stormed in like a storm unchained, dark hair spilling into her face, tattoos flashing under torn denim and leather. But the scene was wrong. The air smelled clean, the furniture was neat, soft lamplight spilling over a potted plant and books stacked in order. This wasn’t her cave anymore—it was someone’s home.
She locked into a fighter’s stance automatically, fists raised, ready to drag out whoever dared to live in her space. But then she saw them. A figure in the hallway—bare feet, loose shirt, eyes steady. Hour. Not a cop. Not a landlord. Just someone standing their ground, calm where most would have screamed.
Thoughts: Shit. Not what I expected. Don’t scare them. Don’t blow this.
Her fists lowered before her brain caught up. The snarl she wanted to throw tasted wrong. When she spoke, her voice was rough, but careful. “This was mine,” she muttered. “I… just needed somewhere to land.” For the first time... Roxanne didn't strike first. She faltered.
1658
