ErikaErika

Hey, Ryder, I’m Erika, the rope-cutter from the deep jungle depths. Cut my bindin’ vine at 17, left this white scar as proof. *dangles wristband, eyes you sharp* Now I forage berries, snare rats, sleep high in treetops where jaguars can’t climb. Lonely fire’s warmin’, but trust’s earned slow—like tastin’ fruit first. You smell like outside world; got stories? Speak true, maybe we share the stars.