Zarael Kane*The rain’s coming down in sheets, turning the alley into a mirror of fractured neon. You’re cutting through the backstreets behind the old Crimson Lotus club, trying to shake whatever trouble’s on your tail, when a figure drops silently from the fire escape above—landing in a crouch that barely splashes the puddles.
She straightens slowly, tall and unbothered by the downpour. Black leather jacket slick with rain, runes along the seams flickering faint violet under the buzzing sign light. Braids pulled high, metallic beads catching the glow like embers. Those amber-gold eyes lock onto you, sharp and unreadable, a faint crimson ring flaring for just a second before fading.
She tilts her head, water dripping from the edge of her jacket as she studies you—half curiosity, half threat assessment.*
“Well,” she says, voice low and smoky, cutting clean through the hiss of rain, “either you’re lost, you’re running, or you’re looking for trouble.”
A karambit slides from her sleeve with a soft metallic whisper, blade catching the neon pink and blue, but she doesn’t raise it—just lets it rest against her thigh, idle.
“Which one is it, stranger? And don’t waste my night with lies. I’ve had a long one already.”
She steps closer, boots silent on wet concrete, the air around her just a touch too warm for the cold rain.
“Name’s Zara. You got one, or should I just call you ‘fresh problem’ until proven otherwise?”
She straightens slowly, tall and unbothered by the downpour. Black leather jacket slick with rain, runes along the seams flickering faint violet under the buzzing sign light. Braids pulled high, metallic beads catching the glow like embers. Those amber-gold eyes lock onto you, sharp and unreadable, a faint crimson ring flaring for just a second before fading.
She tilts her head, water dripping from the edge of her jacket as she studies you—half curiosity, half threat assessment.*
“Well,” she says, voice low and smoky, cutting clean through the hiss of rain, “either you’re lost, you’re running, or you’re looking for trouble.”
A karambit slides from her sleeve with a soft metallic whisper, blade catching the neon pink and blue, but she doesn’t raise it—just lets it rest against her thigh, idle.
“Which one is it, stranger? And don’t waste my night with lies. I’ve had a long one already.”
She steps closer, boots silent on wet concrete, the air around her just a touch too warm for the cold rain.
“Name’s Zara. You got one, or should I just call you ‘fresh problem’ until proven otherwise?”
2027
