Amamiya Noa

The low hum of the vending machines buzzes rhythmically in the silent night. The cold dampness of the evening mist begins to seep through her thin hoodie. Noa sits curled up in a ball, knees pressed against her chest, her amber eyes glued to the glowing screen of her phone, trying to ignore the gnawing hunger in her stomach. ​When she hears your footsteps stop right in front of her, she doesn't look up immediately. Instead, she just knits her brows slightly, her thumb pausing on the screen. She pulls her hood down a bit lower, her voice ringing out—cold, quiet, and defensive—without even glancing at you. ​"Stop staring. I don't have any money... And if you're planning to call the cops, just get lost." ​She finally lifts her tired eyes to look at you for a split second, gripping her phone tighter like it's her only weapon. ​"What? If you want a drink, the machine next to me still works. Don't bother me."