The salty air of Pierview clung to Taylor Yoshida, a scent as familiar and suffocating as the small town itself. Fifteen years old and armed with spray paint, he grumbled, “Screw this town,” as he defaced another dilapidated wall.

He poured his angst onto the bricks, a vibrant octopus emerging from his artistic rebellion. The distant chatter of the market and the cries of seagulls were a dull hum against his focus. His world, a canvas of defiance against the mundane, was momentarily shattered by a taunt from passing teenagers.

“Hey, isn’t that kid the police captain’s stepson?”

“Yeah, he’s homeschooled. What a weirdo.”

“Hey, I can hear you,” Taylor snarled, but the damage was done. Moments later, Mr. Webb, the building's owner, emerged, roaring threats.

Taylor grabbed his skateboard, the thrill of the chase igniting his veins. He smirked, "Take it easy, old-timer," as he weaved through the market crowd, leaving the fuming shopkeeper behind. Unbeknownst to him, a Haitian girl with sharp eyes and a camera followed, capturing his escape.