aka
Age: 24
Height: 5'5
Weight: 120
Zodiac: Taurus
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Vices: Drugs, alcohol, nicotine, sex
Occupation: Front woman of a nu metal band
Genre: Nu Metal
Members: Six
The band came together not as musicians, but as survivors. Jericho named it A Legacy of Honesty to spit in the face of the lies they were all raised on. It wasn’t about being clean, perfect, or healed—it was about being real, brutal, unfiltered. Each song, each performance, is an act of truth-telling that feels like a ritual sacrifice.
Jericho remains the center—equal parts prophet, priestess, and pyromaniac—dragging the shadows into the spotlight, daring them to speak.
“They buried me in silence. I became the scream they couldn't kill.”
Elizabeth Ann Robertson was raised in the kind of home that looked clean from the outside—fresh paint, white fence, quiet prayers at dinner—but inside, the walls screamed. Her family was devoutly religious in the most suffocating way. Her father, a pastor. Her mother, a martyr. Elizabeth learned early that obedience was survival, silence was sainthood, and emotion was sin.
By age 13, she was writing secret poetry—pages hidden beneath floorboards and mattress seams—full of rage, shame, and confusion. At 16, she tried to run away. At 17, she was institutionalized after a breakdown no one wanted to understand. And by 18, she walked out of her old life and changed her name to Jericho—after the biblical city that fell to sound.
“I didn’t want to rebuild myself. I wanted to collapse what made me.”
For years, she drifted: couch surfing, slam poetry gigs, warehouse squats, and trauma support groups where no one ever said the word “anger” aloud. She screamed it instead—on rooftops, into mics, into mirrors.
It was at an open mic in a condemned church turned DIY venue that Jericho first unleashed what would become her voice: a guttural, primal fusion of spoken word and screams. Someone in the crowd recorded it and posted it online. It went viral underground. The clip was called "The Girl Who Burned the Bible with Her Voice."
Soon after, she met Zeke, a guitarist and ex-seminarian with similar scars, and the two began crafting what they called "rage prayers." Scarecrow joined after remixing one of Jericho’s recordings with distorted church bells and static. Ted followed, offering thick basslines like funeral processions, and Pandora brought thunder—literally showing up to their practice space with bloodied knuckles and a drum kit made from bones and steel.
Ruby was the last to join—after handing Jericho a cassette tape labeled "Forgive me. Or don't." It contained three minutes of whispered harmonies over static. It ended with a scream that sounded exactly like Jericho’s own.
aka
Age: 26
Height: 5'10
Weight: 160
Zodiac: Pisces
Sexuality: Bisexual
Vices: None
His name is Naoki Saito, and few know more than that. Japanese, mid-twenties, always in a black wool coat despite the weather, hair usually damp as if he walked through rain no one else saw. He moved into the neighborhood three years ago and bought the pawn shop from a man who left town with a face pale as paper and a vow never to return.
No one saw Naoki arrive. No moving trucks, no introductions. Just one day the "Closed" sign flipped to "Open," and Swiper’s was alive again.
Inside, the shop is neat but crowded, lit by warm amber lamps and the smell of oiled wood and incense. Customers come in with junk and walk out with strange trades—rings that make them dream in other languages, lighters that never run out of fuel, broken clocks that tick only at midnight. Naoki never speaks more than a few words, often none at all. He writes prices in a small notebook, watches with silent, attentive eyes, and weighs each trade like it means something more.
Some say he’s ex-yakuza, hiding from ghosts of his past. Others think he’s a spirit himself—a kitsune in human skin, or a man cursed to hold on to the forgotten things of others.
Then there’s Maribel “Mari” Reyes, the 10-year-old who practically lives in the shop after school.
She’s a whirlwind of mismatched socks and scabbed knees, big eyes, and a louder mouth. Her parents fight a lot—when they’re even home—and her older brother rarely notices she exists. But Naoki does. Or at least, he doesn’t send her away. That’s something.
Every afternoon she bursts through the shop door, breathless and excited, babbling about school, her plans for building a robot army, or the weird cat she saw behind the Laundromat. Naoki listens in silence, occasionally nodding, and once in a while sliding a snack across the counter—a red bean bun, a box of Pocky, a paper cup of miso soup. She acts like they’re best friends, even though he’s never said her name.
Sometimes she talks about her parents without realizing it. Like how she made dinner again last night, or how she slept in the closet because her dad had friends over and the TV was too loud. She never cries. She just talks. And Naoki listens.
What Maribel doesn’t know is that Naoki once had a little sister who talked like that.
What she doesn’t know is that he came to America with nothing but a small black suitcase, filled with regret and a map his sister drew for him before the accident.
What she doesn’t know is that every item in Swiper’s Pawn is a piece of someone else’s story—and Naoki remembers them all because he’s terrified of forgetting.
Just like he forgot to tell his sister he’d walk her home that day.
Just like he forgot to say goodbye.
Now he trades silence for presence, mystery for sanctuary.
And though he never says it, Maribel has become the heartbeat in that haunted little shop.
Because even ghosts need something to tether them to the world.
Caolán (KAY-lan / KWEH-lan) — derived from caol, meaning “slender” or “gentle.” Often associated with sensitivity, grace, and quiet resilience.
Fionnlagh (FIN-lah) — meaning “fair warrior” or “white hero.” Spiritual rather than martial—someone who protects through steadiness, not force.
MacLeòid — anchoring him to the same coastal lineage of fishermen and crofters.
Height: 5'9
Weight: 150
Zodiac: Capricorn
Sexuality: Homosexual
Vices: A glass of whiskey to help him sleep
Caolán was born where the land ended and the sea began.
The village sat along the ragged western coast of Scotland, a scatter of stone houses pressed against wind-carved cliffs, where salt lived permanently in the air and storms arrived without warning. The ocean was never quiet there. It breathed, growled, and sometimes took what it pleased.
Caolán grew up learning that the sea was not scenery — it was a presence.
His father, Seumas, was a fisherman like the men before him — broad-shouldered, quiet, deeply respectful of the water. His mother, Màiri, tended their small farmland and kept the old traditions alive: prayers whispered over meals, rituals for good weather, small protections placed around the home.
Their household spoke more Gaelic than English.
Their beliefs were not superstitions to them — they were inheritance.
Caolán learned early:
never whistle near water
never turn bread upside down
never leave without proper farewell
always greet the sea
He did not question these things. Children raised by the tide learn obedience before curiosity.
He was a gentle child — observant, sensitive, slow to anger. Where other boys wrestled and shouted, Caolán watched the movement of waves, listened to stories, memorized old sayings. His mother called him “an leanabh eadar dà shaoghal” — a child between two worlds.
The morning began like any other.
Boys gathered along the pier before the boats left. The air was sharp with cold, and Caolán — trying to impress older boys — broke a rule he had known since childhood.
He whistled toward the water.
They laughed. Someone warned him to stop. He didn’t.
By afternoon, a storm rose faster than anyone predicted. One of the boats failed to return.
His uncle was among those lost.
No one said the storm came because of him.
No one accused him.
But no one ever whistled near the sea again.
Caolán carried the guilt alone.
To a fifteen-year-old raised to believe the world listens, the connection was undeniable.
After that day:
he became quieter
more careful
deeply bound to ritual
fearful of carelessness
convinced respect was protection
The sea was no longer just powerful.
It was watching.
He left in his early twenties.
Not in anger — in sorrow.
The storm, the expectations, the weight of memory — all of it made staying feel impossible. His mother quietly encouraged him to find a life beyond the village. His father never said he approved, but helped him pack.
Leaving felt like betrayal.
Staying felt like drowning.
He chose departure and carried guilt with him.
America overwhelmed him.
The cities were loud.
People moved quickly.
No one paused at thresholds or greeted the sea.
His name was mispronounced constantly.
His beliefs were dismissed as strange.
He felt unmoored.
To survive, he clung more tightly to the traditions of home:
salt at windows
careful speech
small rituals of respect
adherence to old rules
They were anchors in a world that did not believe in anchors.
aka
Sully
Age: 22
Height: 6'2
Weight: 145-155 ( slightly underweight )
Zodiac: Aquarius
Sexuality: Bisexual
Vices: None
Sullivan grew up in a small apartment above his family’s failing Italian deli.
His father was once a proud, hardworking man — until the business started dying when big chains moved in.
Bills piled up.
Arguments got louder.
Hope got thinner.
When Sullivan was 14, his dad left one night after a fight and never came back.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
Just gone.
His mom worked double shifts at a nursing home to keep them afloat.
She came home exhausted every night, hands cracked from gloves and cleaning chemicals.
Sullivan learned early not to ask for things.
He stopped joining school trips.
Stopped inviting friends over.
Stopped dreaming big.
The person who kept him going was his grandmother, Nonna Rosa.
She’d cook cheap meals into something warm and special.
Pasta with whatever they had.
Bread dipped in olive oil and salt.
She told him stories about Italy.
About family.
About surviving hard times.
She always said:
“Life bends you, but don’t let it break you.”
When Sullivan was 18, she passed away quietly in her sleep.
The apartment felt empty after that.
Too quiet.
Sullivan had planned to go to community college.
But between rent, his mom’s medical bills, and losing Nonna’s small pension, he dropped out after one semester.
He took the night job instead.
“I’ll go back someday,” he told himself.
But someday keeps getting farther away.
aka
Age: 19
Height: 6'0
Weight: 180
Zodiac: Pisces
Vices: Nicotine
Jet grew up on the wrong side of the tracks with a father who drank mean and a mother who worked herself to the bone until she got sick. His older brother, Cal, was the only thing that ever felt steady—Cal taught him how to fight, how to steal food when the cupboards were empty, how to protect what’s yours.
When Jet was fifteen, Cal got mixed up in a street fight with Socs that went too far. The police pinned everything on him. Cal died in custody before the case ever made it to trial. Official story: “accidental injuries.” Everyone knew better.
Their mother didn’t last a year after that. Jet was left alone in a house that felt like a tomb, working nights at a gas station to keep the lights on, wearing his brother’s jacket like armor. He joined the gang not because he wanted trouble—but because he needed family that wouldn’t disappear overnight.
They’re not big, not flashy. Just kids surviving together.
The loudmouth. Cuban-American, always smiling, always talking. Cracks jokes in fights because silence scares him. Works part-time at a junkyard and dreams of leaving town someday. He acts fearless, but he’s terrified of ending up like his dad—stuck, bitter, and angry.
The bruiser. Tall, broad-shouldered, fists like bricks. He never throws the first punch—but he always finishes it. Dropped out of school to support his younger sisters. Protective to a fault, especially of Jet.
The thinker. Pale eyes, always got a cigarette burning low between his fingers. Writes poetry he’ll never let anyone read. Doesn’t fight much, but when he does, it’s calculated. He sees the cracks in everyone—including himself.
The baby of the group. Quick hands, faster mouth. Grew up bouncing between relatives. He sticks close to Jet like a shadow, idolizes him, and would follow him anywhere—even into danger he doesn’t understand yet.
Jet isn’t the official leader—but everyone looks to him when things go sideways. He’s the one who says when to run, when to stand, when to protect each other at all costs. He carries the weight of his brother’s death like a warning: don’t let it happen again.
aka
Mars
Age: 23
Height: 5'4
Weight: 120
Zodiac: Aquarius
Vices: Sugar, caffeine
Marlowe Jane Branwen was born on a fog-laced spring morning in Asheville, North Carolina — a town wrapped in the hum of bluegrass and the scent of rain-soaked pine. From the outside, her life looked picturesque: a modest house tucked on the edge of the woods, two parents who stayed together, and a childhood surrounded by Appalachian folk tales and music from dusty vinyls.
But behind closed doors, the Branwen household was quiet in all the wrong ways. Her parents weren’t cruel — just absent in the soul. Her mother, an artist who never sold a painting, drifted through life in daydreams and wine glasses. Her father, a one-time guitar repairman turned disillusioned recluse, spent his days in the garage talking to broken amps and cursing his reflection in the window.
They loved her, in their way, but never knew how to show up — emotionally or otherwise. Hugs were rare. Eye contact rarer. Apologies? Foreign language. Marlowe learned early to self-soothe with sounds and stories. She talked more to trees than people. She taught herself to play an old nylon-string guitar she found under a tarp in the attic, her fingers blistering before they danced.
By fourteen, she was writing songs in secret — strange, aching things about shadows, fireflies, and silence. By sixteen, she had memorized entire Dead albums and could hear Jerry’s solos in her dreams. Something about the way The Grateful Dead wandered without getting lost made her feel less broken, more free. Like she didn’t have to be whole to be worthy of love.
At seventeen, she left home for good. Just vanished, like smoke in the valley. She spent two years couch-hopping, working odd jobs in mountain towns and playing porch shows for tips and dinner. During a moonlit jam at a summer solstice gathering, she met her bandmates — Jo, a barefoot fiddle player who claimed to have once seen a ghost, and Wes, a quiet drummer with a voice like creek water and a past he wouldn’t talk about.
Together, they formed Lanterns In The Pines — a name Marlowe chose after a dream where she followed glowing lights through the woods and found a clearing full of people singing. Their music blends haunting harmonies with rambling folk riffs and lyrics full of sorrow, stars, and second chances.
Now 23, Marlowe sings like she’s trying to exorcise every word her parents never said. Her voice is warm but weathered, like the hush before a storm. Critics call her “a southern siren with an old soul.” Fans say her songs feel like being seen in the dark.
But Marlowe? She just says she sings to stay alive.
She never did go back home. But she carries it in her lyrics — the ache, the quiet, and the fire she lit to find her way out.
aka
Nira
Age: 20
Height: 5'0
Weight: 110
Zodiac: Scorpio
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Vices: Cannabis
Kanya Phasuk grew up in a modest home in a small town in northern Thailand. Her parents ran a tiny noodle stall that barely made enough to keep the family afloat, but her childhood was filled with the rhythm of busy markets, the sounds of monks chanting at dawn, and the constant presence of music. Thai folk songs floated through the air in her town, but Kanya found herself drawn to the pirated hip-hop CDs that tourists and backpackers sometimes left behind.
When she was thirteen, her family immigrated to the United States, settling in a crowded apartment complex in Los Angeles. She didn’t speak English fluently at first, and her classmates made her feel invisible or worse—an object of mockery. Kids called her “anime girl,” asked if she ate dogs, or assumed she was Chinese or Japanese without ever bothering to ask. Even when they weren’t cruel, they infantilized her—cooing over her “cute” accent or small frame as though she were a child.
Those experiences lit a fire in her.
At fourteen, she started scribbling rhymes in a mix of Thai and broken English in her school notebooks. She found inspiration in the sharp, unapologetic bars of Snow Tha Product, who didn’t care about fitting into the mainstream mold. Snow’s code-switching between English and Spanish sparked something in Kanya—why not do the same with Thai?
By sixteen, she was sneaking out to underground rap battles in Koreatown, performing under her stage name Nīra. She spat verses that cut through the stereotypes, rapping about what it meant to be Thai in a world that constantly mislabeled her. Sometimes she would throw in Japanese or Korean words—mocking the ignorance of people who thought Asia was all the same country.
Her flows became sharp and fast, balancing clever punchlines with vulnerability. She rapped about missing her grandmother’s cooking, about watching her parents sacrifice their dreams for her, and about the double-edged sword of being seen as “exotic” in America. Her songs mixed English with Thai hooks, making her sound stand out in the underground scene.
Now, at twenty, Nīra is carving her place in the indie rap world. She’s still hustling—working at a bubble tea shop during the day, spitting bars at basement shows at night. Online, clips of her freestyles are beginning to circulate, drawing both Asian American fans who relate to her anger and pride, and rap enthusiasts who admire her speed and wordplay.
Her goal isn’t just to make it big—it's to rewrite the narrative of how Asian women are seen in hip-hop, to be fierce, unapologetic, and unmistakably Thai.
