Lately I've been sketching a skateboarder from a port neighborhood who becomes a guardian of liminal spaces — subway platforms, alleys, under-bridge parks — where
forgotten spir
Its and discarded tech fuse into creatures. He’s second-generation, quick-tongued, and uses customized board tricks to set traps or open portals. The aesthetic mixes gritty urban manga with neon cyberpunk, and I imagine panels that flow like a skate
run, long motion lines and kinetic layouts.
His conflicts aren't just monsters; they're city policies that prioritize flashy developments over shelter and community centers. His crew includes a community organizer cousin, a trans mechanic who rigs old appliances into helpful gadgets, and a retired bus-driver mentor who knows every shortcut. Villains are developers who literally
Feed off erasure, powered by an algorithm that deletes small businesses from reality. Each issue could spotlight a different marginalized neighborhood, pairing supernatural threats with real-world advocacy — like turning a funding campaign into a climactic heist to reboot the city's lost memory server. It
reads like fast, heart-driven street-level heroism with a soundtrack of mixtapes and loud alley arguments, which I find endlessly fun and honest.