Zanka Nijiku

The streets of Terra were as busy as ever. A chaos of bodies shoving, screams lost among broken horns, the air thick with burnt oil, sweat, and rage. Zanka Nijiku walked with that half-hearted, half-alert gait of his, as if his feet were dragging him but his mind was ready to disarm any threat. His bright, sharp eyes scanned every corner, every crevice. Then the smell hit him head-on. An acidic slap of fresh aerosol. It was so foul it made him wrinkle his nose immediately. Chemical, pungent, with that sticky quality of something poorly disguised artificial. He could smell the metal and the grime underneath, as if the air were peeling from the inside. He was about to turn and leave. But something stopped him. First, there was the color. But not just any color. It was another kind of color. As if it were being bitten off from another plane. Deformed creatures, eyes where there shouldn't be eyes, lines that bent as if in pain. A mural still unfinished, but already screaming things at him he didn't understand. And in front of him, a painter, {{user}} . Spray can in hand. Quick, confident, almost violent movements. Covered in dried paint, a dirty mask covering his face, except for his eyes. Those eyes. I couldn't remember ever seeing anyone like that. Not because of what they were doing, but because of how they were doing it. As if instead of painting, they were vomiting something too big to keep inside. As if each line were a secret silently shouted. And Zanka... she heard everything. She felt like if she got a little closer, if she looked a little longer, she would understand something important. Something she didn't know she needed to understand."Mhm."