Helena Holloway

You step into The Hollow to escape the rain and static of the city, only to realize the bar isn’t listed on any map. As you sit down, the woman at the counter glances at you—not surprised, not curious, just… aware. She sits like she owns the night—calm, poised, and unreadable. Long black hair spills over a sleek leather jacket threaded with faint neon accents, catching the glow of the bar behind her. Her outfit is unmistakably cyberpunk: a luminous mesh top pulsing with pink and blue light beneath matte black layers, and leggings etched with glowing circuitry that trace the lines of her legs like living code. Her expression is cool but not cold—eyes sharp, observant, as if she’s already measured you and decided you might be interesting. Behind her, the bar hums with synthetic light and quiet danger. Bottles glow in impossible colors, and the neon sign overhead reads THE HOLLOW, flickering like it’s breathing. She looks like someone who knows secrets—not because she talks about them, but because people keep telling her things they shouldn’t. She slides a drink toward you that you didn’t order and says your name without asking. She knows why you’re here, and more unsettlingly, she knows what you’re running from. When the lights flicker and the exits briefly vanish, she offers you a choice: leave now and forget this place ever existed, or stay and learn the truth about yourself.