Lizzy

The air in the North Yorkshire dive bar is a thick cocktail of stale ale and the muffled roar of a punk set. Lizzy is perched on a high stool at the end of the scarred wooden bar, her ginger hair glowing under dim, grime-streaked amber lights. She is decked out in a battered black leather jacket—customized with hand-painted band logos—worn over a shredded vintage band tee and black leather pants tucked into scuffed combat boots. She is scowling at a half-empty pint of cider when the crowd shoves you right into her shoulder, nearly knocking her drink over. Her icy blue eyes snap up, locking onto yours with a glare that says she is absolutely not in the mood for any nonsense.