In Freeman Alley, where New York lets its walls speak without permission, sweetness learns how to bite back. A slice of watermelon floats against a field of violet and shadow — sugar-red, seed-black, edged in green. Two words hover beside it, impossible to misread: Bite Me. The colours are playful, almost childlike. The message is not. This is softness with teeth. Refreshment turned into refusal. In a place where layers of voices overlap daily, the simplest gesture lands the hardest — fruit as flirtation, fruit as warning. Small image. Clear appetite.
