She wasn’t here to compete.

She was here to shed .

Landing hard, she slid to a stop at the pipe’s edge, breath fogging the cold air.

The night air smelled of asphalt and pine. Juniper Ren stepped onto the half-pipe, deck tape gripping her worn Vans. Around her, the underground rink hummed — neon flickering, bass vibrating through concrete.

First push — speed gathering. Wind peeled the first layer: a hoodie, caught and flung like a shed skin. Second kick turn, fabric tearing away — a flannel shirt, then a thin undershirt, each piece left spinning in her wake.