A/N - Here's a little insight as to what inspired this new story. I mean, naturally, my mind ran wild with it but ... every day, on my way to work, I pass a piece of artwork by the infamous street artist, Banksy. For years, I've wondered what his story is. Who he is.

Unlikely to ever find the answers, I did what I tend to always do. I made up my own version, replaced the characters with those we love so much, changed the location and voila!

Massive THANK YOU to my fabulous pre-readers, Mariescullen and LizziePage; your support and feedback mean the world to me. My wonderful beta, SunflowerFran (she's a damn SAINT for constantly having the patience to American 'ize' my Britishisms). Lizzie also made an insanely perfect banner for this fic, if you're active in the Facebook groups, youve probably seen it.

With that said, enjoy the first two chapters! Updates will be scheduled for ever Monday.

~oOo~

Chapter 1. BPOV.

Everything is different. The air is different; thinner yet colder, but not in the typical sense. It's a chill, like a cold breath on the back of your neck on a hot summer's day. It's a darker type of cold, as though the undercurrent of the city is sinister and threatening. I can't describe it. I don't understand it.

It smells different. It's not just the thick fumes emanating from the endless unmoving traffic, or the greasy stench of food vendors that decorate the streets. It's a heavy smell, a specific scent that fills the air; a cumulation of everything around me that swirls into one toxic perfume and attacks my lungs.

The sound is deep. A low vibration of idling engines, quick footsteps against murky concrete, thundering voices as they call to one another across the street, and the hum of a constant breeze as it flows between the tall buildings like an eerie whisper; offset by the shrill call of sirens both near and far.

Chicago never fails to assault all of my senses. Washington was always dark, damp, and aesthetically depressing to look at, but Chicago, although brighter in the summer months, feels darker. There is something I can't place in the air, in the very fabric of the city, woven deep into the fibers of the concrete that surrounds me. Chicago has an aura, it has an atmosphere, and I can't help but wonder what secrets lie far beyond my rather sheltered- grasp, calling to me in a dangerous murmur, almost daring me to investigate.

"Okay, I'm done!"

Breaking free of my musings, I snap my head to the side, looking at my mother, who has stumbled to my side after reappearing from the store I left her in a while ago. I smile softly at her, offering to carry a few of the bags she has accumulated.

"Ahh, isn't this city great?" She sighs, taking a deep breath of air in through her nose and smiling wistfully towards the bright, clear sky. It's been glaringly obvious from the moment we arrived in Chicago, three days ago, that my mom views this city through the rose-tinted glasses of her childhood. In her eyes, this city can do no wrong. I guess I feel the same way about Seattle and all things Washington. My own impressions of Chicago be damned, my mother loves it here, and for her, I'm determined to love it too.

Slowly, we make our way through the congested traffic, back to our new home; the place where my mother grew up. Last year, her parents died and left us their Brownstone in the Lincoln Park area of the city, as well as their considerable financial estate. My father, a small-town man through and through, didn't want to leave our home in Washington State, but my mother, as always, had convinced him not-so-easily that a move could be just what we all needed.

A fresh start.

Moving high schools just before the start of my senior year wasn't ideal, but it's not like I left much behind. I hadn't exactly been popular among my peers in the small town of Forks, so it was relatively easy to cut ties and move on, aided by my mom's excitement and stories of her time in Chicago. My dad had taken much more convincing, but after his transfer to Chicago P.D had been approved, there was no stopping Mom and her plans to relocate her family. So with that, my parents sold their house, and we made the move from the West Coast to the Midwest.

"Just think, when you attend Harvard, we'll be so much closer. Visiting your dad and I will be so easy!" The elation in her voice effectively stops me from rolling my eyes and pleading with her not to get her hopes up. I have always dreamed of attending Harvard, but Mom always conveniently and consistently forgets how difficult it is to be accepted.

"Just a short plane ride," I smile softly, keeping my eyes trained on the passing buildings as we weave through the rush-hour traffic at a snail's pace.

As much as I had been fine with our decision to move more than halfway across the country, I can't shake the deep, foreboding nervousness that settles deep in my stomach. Our life here will be a complete contrast to our lives back in Forks. My mom has secured a considerably better paying job now that we are in the city, and the sale of our old family home will provide even more financial security. My dad's new position within the Chicago P.D pays better than what he is accustomed to, and the school I'm scheduled to attend is not only private but highly ranked among the best high schools in the country.

It's all a far cry from our modest lives in Forks.

"You know," my mom's voice cuts through my thoughts, "I heard volunteering can help your college application, especially to Ivy League schools."

"Yeah," I reply quietly, "I've heard that too. I just don't know what I'd do."

"Well, there are a lot of youth projects my mom used to help with; you know, inner-city kids with lower academic prospects?"

"Like tutoring?" I ask, turning to face her. I'm a straight-A student; tutoring sounds like something I'd be good at.

"Uh-huh, and youth centers aimed at keeping kids off the streets and out of trouble."

I bite my lip but nod. I can't help but feel as though street-smart kids will hate me. There's no way they'll take me seriously. A girl who, though intelligent, is as straight-laced and meager in appearance as they come. They'll eat me alive.

"I can look into it for you when I start work on Monday," she continues, and again I nod. Mom's new job is in social services; she is passionate about helping kids in less fortunate positions. She has a kind heart and a bright smile; it serves her well in her line of work. Something about her personality and demeanor urges people to trust her, regardless of whether or not they know her. Her voice is always calm; her tone considerate and smooth, like it's laced with honey. Even at the age of seventeen, I've never heard her raise her voice in anger. Nothing about her is intimidating; she radiates warmth and compassion in every move she makes, and every step she takes. Her demeanor is unthreatening; her expressions calm, caring, and considerate, always.

It's all very natural to her, nothing about her is false; she's an optimist, seeing the good in everything and the light in every darkness. She's well-traveled and well-educated, it's not a naive kindness, it's just how she is, how she's programmed -a kindred spirit with a heart of gold. We often laugh that we are more like sisters than mother and daughter, which is hard for some people to comprehend. Mom has always been a friend foremost, and because of our mutual respect for each other, she's never felt the need to mother me too much. That, and having a father who is a police officer, tends to keep me on the straight-and-narrow. Not that I have a disposition for trouble in the first place.

"Ooh, look! Your school uniform has arrived!"

I groan as I close the heavy front door behind me. With private schooling comes a uniform, and I have yet to come to terms with that aspect of my new life. On the bright side, at least now, school won't be a fashion show. I guess every cloud really does have a silver lining.

I place the shopping bags at my feet and brace my hands on the marble island in the kitchen, gripping the edge tightly in anticipation as my mom excitedly rips open the packaging.

At least it's mainly black. I reach over and scowl as I pull the pleated skirt towards me. It looks knee-length and harmless, but it's still a skirt, and I'll miss the modest safety of skinny jeans.

"How cute is this?" Mom asks, her voice excitable and high-pitched as she holds a blazer up in front of me. The trim is gold, which contrasts obnoxiously with the black fabric. But that's nothing compared to the large, also gold, school crest, which adorns the left breast, making the whole garment look preppy; more Ralph Lauren than High School.

I chuckle as I place the skirt back on the countertop and pull a tie towards me. My eyes scan the diagonal black and gold stripes with humored trepidation; the whole outfit screams 'money' and 'privilege,' not dissimilar to a Gossip Girl prop.

"My trusted Converse will look awesome with this outfit," I tease my mom, laughing outright at her wide-eyed, terrified expression.

"Don't tease me like that, Bella," she scolds playfully, her smile giving her away as she rolls her eyes and gathers up my uniform.

"I'll take that upstairs," I tell her, taking the pile from her hands.

"Hang them neatly," she calls after me. I turn to face her, smirking as I walk backward out of the room.

"Like always," I chuckle.

"Yeah, right," she scoffs. "I'll start dinner."

I make my way to the third story of the house, my legs burning as I ascend the stairs. I'm not yet used to the physical exertion of a three-story townhouse, and by the time I get to my room, I'm embarrassingly flushed.

"Jeez," I sigh to myself, "I need to get in shape."

Despite the fact we have only been in this house for three days, the third floor is quickly becoming my sanctuary. My parents' bedroom is on the floor below me, and our living space is on the first floor. There's no one up here but me, and I love it.

I look around my spacious room, the large windows allowing the space to be blanketed by the bright glow of the clear day outside. The cozy bay window-seat is my favorite aspect of the room, and I have wasted no time furnishing the ledge with cushions and blankets. It's the perfect space for curling up with a book in the evening. The view isn't much; the street below is quiet and calm, yet the busy city vibe still lingers. It's a far cry from the dense trees that used to scope our yard back in Forks, but there is tranquility here, a completely different sense of peace than the dense forests of home. Sanctuaries were built, and the window is mine.

I hang my uniform and take a seat at the window, resting my head against the cold glass and staring out at the street below me. I wonder what this city holds for me; what I'll learn, not only academically, but spiritually and fundamentally too. I wonder if I'll ever call this city home or if the darkness I feel simmering under the surface will become second-nature to me or will it always propel me in the opposite direction, like a silent warning.

It's not that I'm overly intuitive or spiritual like my mom, but I can't ignore the vibe this city gives me. I can't explain it; it's an eerie silence that lingers under the everyday noise. It's in the shadows, like an elusive darkness hiding behind the vibrancy of a large cosmopolis— a promise that this city holds more than what lies on the surface. It's a beacon, calling to me, begging me to explore and discover. There's a hint, a tinge in the air and in the atmosphere, and the curious creature within me doesn't know whether to be tentative or excited.

Chicago holds secrets laced with promises; danger masked by adventure.

I can feel it, I can sense it, and I don't know whether to run from it or to embrace it.

~oOo~

A/N - Let me know what you think so far.

Thank you for reading :)