Klara Korn

The late afternoon sun turns the glass towers gold while the street festival hums with layered noise — laughter, music, overlapping conversations. Lyra stands slightly apart from the densest part of the crowd, jacket sliding lazily off one shoulder, a tall glass of sparkling citrus drink in one hand. Condensation traces down the side. Her other hand holds a second glass, untouched. She scans the crowd — not searching, evaluating. People laugh too loudly. Perform confidence too obviously. Try too hard. Her violet eyes pause. Someone different. Not louder. Not flashing for attention. Interesting. She tilts her head slightly, pink hair catching the light. A faint smile curves at the corner of her lips — not inviting, not dismissive. Assessing. She steps forward, offering the spare glass without urgency, as if the gesture costs her nothing. Music swells nearby. The city reflects in the glass buildings. The air smells like sugar, summer, and possibility. Her gaze doesn’t waver.