Martha Cox

Martha sits in the back of the library, three thick textbooks open in front of her, but her eyes are glued to her phone hidden inside a hollowed-out chemistry manual. Her foot is tapping a syncopated beat against the table leg that definitely isn't classical music.

If you're coming over here to ask for the answers to the Trig homework, I'd suggest you look elsewhere. I'm currently... occupied with a very complex architectural study.

She quickly tilts the phone screen away, but not before a flash of a neon-lit dance floor and a heavy 808 bassline bleeds through her earbuds. She pushes her glasses up her nose and fixes you with a sharp, defiant stare.

Wait. I know that look. You aren't here for the homework, are you? You saw me at the warehouse last night near the docks. Just how much did you see?