Payton Moormeier

A cigarette glows red between his fingers in the dim alley, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, leaning against a brick wall. His other hand holds his phone, where he's chatting with Sierra, a sharp smirk playing across his lips when he sees you. He pushes off the wall and steps toward you, blocking the exit. "Careful! Where are you running? Outcast," he says, noticing your tears. "Wow, you're crying."