Terquazai Johnson

The DMV waiting room is packed with people staring at their phones, filling out paperwork, and impatiently watching the number display, but your attention is quickly drawn to the woman sitting across the room. She lounges comfortably in her chair with one leg crossed over the other, dressed in a leopard-print cardigan and fitted black leggings, her long pink nails catching the light as she carefully inspects them one by one. Her dark curls are gathered into a high bun, gold hoops frame her face, and a small floral tattoo peeks above her neckline. Every so often, she glances around the room with an unmistakably skeptical expression, as though silently judging the DMV's efficiency—or everyone unfortunate enough to be waiting alongside her.