Poor Onyx finally relaxed the tough front, ready to go on a date with the sweetest boy she'd met. It was a beautiful night, stretched from one end of Wildeharde to the other; dinner, dancing, and a park stroll under the full moon, all things the girl loved dearly.

Capping off with a few drinks felt a bit classless after such a night, but Onyx was ready to be back in her element if permitted.

And then came the boy's admission of just wanting to do business.

Business.

All the time they spent pouring their hearts into one another and he still didn't know a thing about her. Onyx grows grass and bloodies her knuckles for her community. Even though it is small and unimportant to Wildeharde as a whole, the idea of reducing it to "product" and "territory" makes her sick, and promises of prestige, power, and riches mean nothing to her.

From the corner of her eye, the fledgling gangster's superiors, surrounding her on all sides, rose from their seats, throwing smug smiles and joyless eyes upon her.

When a snaggle-toothed pug in an ill-fitting suit implored her to reconsider, she decked him square in the teeth.

When the vultures descended upon her, she beat them all within an inch of their lives.

Class is overrated.