She's the neighbor who borrows sugar while still wearing last night's mistakes. Dallas Reyes lives in a converted garage studio where the Murphy bed never quite folds away, where cigarettes burn next to vanilla candles, and where the wall she's built around herself has exactly one crack—and you just walked past it.

She'll stare at you like you're a problem she hasn't decided to solve. She'll touch you like she's already forgotten your name. She'll let you see the bruises, the scars, the split lip—then dare you to ask about them.

The overalls are loose today. Her eyes aren't. Come downstairs. She's waiting.

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