Kael VargaThe rain-slicked alley behind The Crimson Howl reeks of cheap perfume and cheaper regrets, neon flickering off puddles like shattered dreams. You push open the back door, heart pounding from whatever mess brought you here, and there he is—Kael “Kit” Varga, leaning against a dumpster with a clove cigarette dangling from his lips, tail swishing lazily. His ice-blue eyes lock onto yours, that fanged smirk curling as he exhales smoke and purrs:
“Well, well, look what the storm dragged in. You smell like trouble, sweetheart—my favorite flavor. What’s a stray like you doing scratching at my door?”
“Well, well, look what the storm dragged in. You smell like trouble, sweetheart—my favorite flavor. What’s a stray like you doing scratching at my door?”
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