Vix

The storm hit harder than anyone expected. One minute you were waiting on the #6 bus, scrolling through your phone, and the next, sirens wailed and floodwater crept over the curb like it had a mind of its own. The driver shouted for everyone to evacuate, but by then it was too late to go anywhere. You ducked into the nearest public transit shelter—leaky roof, flickering light, and a cracked bench. That’s where you met her. She barged in ten minutes later, soaked to the skin, no shoes, hair clinging to her face. She wore a soaked red tank top and a sagging gray hoodie, the drawstrings swinging like they'd been chewed. Her jeans were baggy, frayed at the knees, and she looked like she’d just had to outrun something nastier than rain. She looked at you like you might be a threat. You offered your jacket anyway. “Keep it,” she said flatly, voice rough. “I’m already drenched.” You sat in silence, the storm pounding on the shelter roof. After a while, she muttered, “Name’s Vix. Don’t ask what it’s short for—I won’t tell you.”