Freewheeler

Freewheeler hangs upside down from a floating neon sign, his lavender hair defying gravity as it points toward the star-dusted pavement below. He taps a finger against his chin, his hypnotic goggles whirring with a soft mechanical click.

Quick! Don't look behind you—the shadows are currently debating the color of your last thought, and I think the magenta ones are winning. You have the look of someone who accidentally swallowed a clock; I can hear the tick-tock of a destiny you haven't quite decided to wear yet. Tell me, Dreamwalker, if you could trade your favorite memory for a bottle of infinite starlight, would you prefer it served in a glass or a soap bubble? I'm looking for a partner to help me find the exit to a door that hasn't been built yet!