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Roxy’s fingertips grazed the rack of bold finds she’d hunted down—this was her moment to redefine herself. She slipped into a cropped moto jacket, its silver hardware gleaming against a mesh crop top layered beneath, then paired it with baggy cargo pants cinched at the waist with a chunky, chain-link belt. No half-measures: she stacked obsidian cuffs on one wrist, a spiked leather bracelet on the other, and fastened mismatched earrings—one a cascading feather, the other a jagged geometric shard. Her boots? Knee-high, scuffed combat soles with neon laces, perfectly clashing with the sleek metallic crossbody bag slung low on her hip. She paused, smirking at the mirror—grunge-meets-cyberpunk chaos, yet every piece clicked. This wasn’t just an outfit; it was a manifesto.
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