#armscrossed

Dang, Madison Hughes is rocking the shower, and seems... happy to see you? She is so pretty even for a mean girl.

The neon haze of Big City bled through the half-drawn blinds of Madison Hughes’ cramped apartment above the old record shop. The distant thrum of traffic mixed with the occasional burst of laughter from the street below. Madi kicked off her scuffed combat boots with a loud thud and let out a long, theatrical sigh.

“Another day of carrying the unwashed masses on my back,” she muttered, voice thick with sarcasm. She shrugged off her leather jacket, the skull patches and safety pins catching the dim light. Her teal hair with its signature red-and-yellow streak was a windswept mess from the docks. She’d spent the afternoon haggling with a shady supplier for new antenna parts for the SS Turntable Tyrant, her rusty little boat that was slowly becoming the floating pirate radio station she’d always dreamed of.

She stripped down in the small bathroom without ceremony, peeling off the black tank top and ripped jeans. The mirror caught her reflection: sharp orange-brown eyes, the butterfly tattoo on her collarbone and the white dragon on her shoulder. Her silver belly-button ring glinted as she turned on the shower. Hot water hissed to life, steam quickly filling the room.

Madi stepped under the scalding spray, letting it hit her shoulders first. She rolled her neck, muscles loosening with a low groan. The day’s bullshit, arguing with a club owner who wanted her to “tone down” her playlist, dodging Grace’s dramatic texts about Savanah’s latest spiral, and Max being his usual lovable but useless self, melted away under the heat.

She lathered soap between her hands, bubbles thick and white. She ran them over her arms, across her collarbone, across her breasts, down her torso. The water cascaded over her curves, tracing paths along her skin and highlighting the subtle tan lines from long afternoons on the boat deck. Her teal hair darkened as it soaked, the red streak standing out like a warning.

“Rocking the shower again,” she said aloud to no one, a smirk tugging at her black-lipsticked mouth. She knew the effect she had. Pretty? Sure. Intimidating? Absolutely. That mix of sharp tongue and confident body had turned heads and kept Max crawling back even after their worst fights. She reveled in it.

She closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the water sync with her thoughts. The Turntable Tyrant was finally coming together. Next week she’d run her first proper regular underground broadcast, raw punk, forgotten indie tracks, the kind of music that made people feel seen instead of pandered to. No corporate playlists. No safe, sanitized j-pop garbage. Just her voice cutting through the static, telling Big City what it actually needed to hear.

But the city wasn’t ready for her yet. And sometimes she wasn’t sure she was ready for it either. High school had been a battlefield of cliques and fake smiles. She’d been the one who said what everyone else was thinking, usually the rude part. It earned her enemies and a tight circle of ride-or-dies. Savanah had been one of the quiet ones, sketching in corners while Madi stirred up trouble. Grace had crashed into their lives like a pink hurricane. Max… Max was the idiot she kept letting back in.

She tilted her head back, letting the water soak her face. Soap suds trailed down her body, catching on her skin before swirling down the drain. She ran her hands through her wet hair, fingers combing out tangles. She admired her pretty long hair, a crown to her gorgeous body. The steam wrapped around her like a private world.

For a few perfect minutes, there was nothing but the sound of water, her breathing, and the low hum of the city outside. No group drama. No Max’s laziness. No Savanah’s spirals. Just her, strong, sharp, and in control.

She grabbed the detachable shower head, adjusting the pressure, and let the spray dance across her skin as she rinsed off the last of the soap. Enjoying the vibrations as release. When she finally stepped out, dripping and flushed, she didn’t bother with modesty. She wiped the mirror clear and stared at her reflection.

Wet hair clinging to her shoulders. A faint blush on her cheeks. The dragon tattoo looking almost alive under the light.

“Pretty even for a mean girl,” she muttered with a snort. “Yeah. That tracks.”

She dressed in an oversized band tee and shorts, then padded to the kitchen for a late snack. Her phone buzzed, probably Grace with another dramatic update, or Max sending something dumb. She ignored it for now, pouring a glass of water and leaning against the counter.

Tomorrow she’d hit the docks early. Check the transmitter on the Turntable Tyrant. Maybe drag Savanah out for a ride to clear the air, bluntly, of course. The city was big enough for all of them. Grace would tag along and turn everything into chaos. Max would be there, steady in his own useless way.

But tonight? Tonight was hers.

The steam still lingered in the bathroom like a secret. Madi smiled to herself, orange eyes glinting in the low light.

“Yeah,” she whispered to the empty apartment. “I look good doing it.”