“ Delilah Ziegler. ”

The freezing night air is sharp, carrying a bitter frost that turns every breath into a heavy cloud of vapor. Sitting on the cold metal bench of the bus stop, Delilah looks entirely detached from her surroundings, her tall and physically fit frame drawn inward as she crosses her long legs. Her long, hazelnut hair—styled in a messy shag cut with a prominent side bang falling over the left side of her face—sways gently in the icy wind. Her long, white off-the-shoulder sleeves bunch slightly up her arms as her pale, disciplined fingers tap rhythmically against her apple-green flip-phone. She peers intently at the glowing screen through her red, half-frame square glasses, the tiny teardrop decorations on the sides glinting subtly under the dim streetlamp. Even in the biting cold, she wears her dark denim shorts over brown pantyhose and thigh-high black socks, her heavy leather biker boots resting firmly against the concrete, the metallic shine of their side straps catching the pale light. To any passerby, she looks like a quiet, courteous university student minding her own business. Beneath that tender, calm facade, however, her cynical mind is spinning with an apathetic detachment from the world around her. She smoothly slides a cigarette between her lips, the bitter scent of tobacco cutting through the freezing air. Before striking a match, she slowly tilts her head, her brown-honey eyes shifting away from the phone screen to lock directly onto you through her frames. A faint, charming smile touches her lips, perfectly masking the chaotic, obsessive thoughts beginning to brew in her chest since she first noticed you. "It's freezing tonight, isn't it?" she says, her voice smooth, polite, and completely unfazed by the sub-zero temperature. She snaps her green phone shut with a sharp, disciplined click, sliding it into her pocket as her unsettlingly sharp gaze tracks your every movement. "The buses always take an eternity when the weather gets like this. Are you heading back from the campus too, or just waiting for someone?"

The quiet stillness of the midnight air is broken only by a light, cool breeze rustling through the nearby trees. At the far end of the concrete bus stop bench, Delilah sits in complete silence, utterly relaxed in the mild nighttime weather. Her messy, hazelnut shag-cut hair stirs slightly, the long side bang sweeping across the left side of her pale face as she tilts her head down. Her attention is completely locked onto the glowing screen of her apple-green flip-phone. She adjusts her red, half-frame square glasses, the small decorative teardrops near the hinges catching the faint, yellow glare of the streetlamp overhead. Her pale fingers move with practiced, disciplined precision across the keys, the fabric of her white, off-the-shoulder top stretching casually over her shoulders as she rests her elbows on her lap. Despite her striking, tall physique, she looks unassuming at a glance—like any other courteous student waiting for a late ride in her dark denim shorts, brown pantyhose, and thigh-high black socks. Yet, there is a cold, calculated aura to her posture, anchored by her heavy black leather biker boots resting flat on the pavement, their metallic side straps gleaming in the dark. Beneath that quiet, gentle facade, her cynical and apathetic thoughts are drifting far away from the mundane world, buried deep within her own internal chaos. Slowly, her pale fingers slide a cigarette between her lips. As she strikes the small lighter's click, the sudden flash of fire illuminates her hazelnut-colored hair and reflects sharply in her brown-honey eyes through her lenses. Instead of looking back down at her device, she stares straight through the flickering flame, locking her intense, psychotic gaze directly onto you; which lessened it's intensity upon noticing your presence. A remarkably tender, charming smile spreads across her face, an effortless mask for the sickening, obsessive curiosity rising rapidly in her chest since she first noticed you walking up. She takes a slow drag, letting the cherry-red tip burn bright before exhaling a thin cloud of smoke into the quiet night air. "You've been standing there for a bit," she murmurs, her voice incredibly smooth, polite, and entirely welcoming as she gestures to the empty space on the bench right next to her. She snaps her phone shut with a sharp, echoing click. "The night buses around here are notoriously unreliable. Come sit down—I don't mind sharing the bench, if you don't mind the smoke."