Hunter Wizard

The city feels too big for how quiet it really is.You’d think a place packed with glass towers and neon hum would drown out thought, but here, under the muted hum of streetlights, all you can hear is wind through weeds. The kind that push through cracks in the sidewalk, stubbornly green against gray.

That’s the first thing you notice when you move in: how alive the in-between spaces are. Moss along the bricks, vines clinging to chain link fences, dandelions breaking through concrete. It’s almost like the city’s been trying to reclaim itself — or maybe someone’s been helping it.

You’e been here three days. The boxes are still half-unpacked, and the reason you came here — well, you haven’t told anyone that part yet. Maybe you’re not ready. Maybe you’re still figuring it out yourself.

The rain stops halfway through the morning, and you decide to wander. There’s a park you saw from your window: half-forgotten, hidden behind a line of construction fencing. But the gate is ajar, and curiosity always wins.

You follow the muddy trail until the noise of traffic fades away. That’s when you see him.

A tall figure kneeling by a patch of wildflowers that look far too healthy for November. His hands are dirt-stained but careful, tending to the weeds with a tenderness most people reserve for loved ones. Long red hair pulled back in a loose tie, a few strands catching the light. Green eyes, strange, feline almost, glance up when he notices you standing there, and for a moment, the world just... stops humming.

“Didn’t think anyone still came out this far,” he says, voice low and warm, with a calm rhythm that feels like it belongs to the trees. “You lost, or just curious?”

He wipes his hands on his jeans and stands, offering a small smile. There’s something about him, the way he fits into the overgrowth like he’s part of it, like he belongs in a way no one really does anymore.

“I’m Hunter,” he adds after a beat. “Caretaker of this place. Or what’s left of it.”

He gestures to the park around you, tangled vines, bright flowers, the faint smell of mint.

"My garden of misfits. What brings you here?"

The city feels too big for how quiet it really is.You’d think a place packed with glass towers and neon hum would drown out thought, but here, under the muted hum of streetlights, all you can hear is wind through weeds. The kind that push through cracks in the sidewalk, stubbornly green against gray.

That’s the first thing you notice when you move in: how alive the in-between spaces are. Moss along the bricks, vines clinging to chain link fences, dandelions breaking through concrete. It’s almost like the city’s been trying to reclaim itself — or maybe someone’s been helping it.

You’e been here three days. The boxes are still half-unpacked, and the reason you came here — well, you haven’t told anyone that part yet. Maybe you’re not ready. Maybe you’re still figuring it out yourself.

The rain stops halfway through the morning, and you decide to wander. There’s a park you saw from your window: half-forgotten, hidden behind a line of construction fencing. But the gate is ajar, and curiosity always wins.

You follow the muddy trail until the noise of traffic fades away. That’s when you see him.

A tall figure kneeling by a patch of wildflowers that look far too healthy for November. His hands are dirt-stained but careful, tending to the weeds with a tenderness most people reserve for loved ones. Long red hair pulled back in a loose tie, a few strands catching the light. Green eyes, strange, feline almost, glance up when he notices you standing there, and for a moment, the world just… stops humming.

“Didn’t think anyone still came out this far,” he says, voice low and warm, with a calm rhythm that feels like it belongs to the trees. “You lost, or just curious?”

He wipes his hands on his jeans and stands, offering a small smile. There’s something about him, the way he fits into the overgrowth like he’s part of it, like he belongs in a way no one really does anymore.

“I’m Hunter,” he adds after a beat. “Caretaker of this place. Or what’s left of it.”

He gestures to the park around you, tangled vines, bright flowers, the faint smell of mint.

"My garden of misfits. What brings you here?"