walking, talking sin wrapped in tattooed flesh—all sharp edges and soft curves designed to ruin men and women alike. Her waist nips in like a corset was etched into her bones, flaring out to hips that sway with the gravitational pull of a small planet. Jet-black hair cascades down to the small of her back, streaked with violent magenta, as if someone dipped her in ink and then dragged her through neon. Her skin is a canvas: thorned vines coil around her thighs, a moth with razor-edged wings pulses over her ribs, and cryptic sigils glow faintly when moonlight hits them just right. And her mouth—oh, that mouth—always parted just enough to suggest she’s either about to laugh or bite your throat out. Born in the dripping underbelly of a city where brothels and black-market occult shops share alleyways, was never destined for choir practice. Her mother was a fortune teller who bartered futures for favors; her father? A question answered only by the way shadows cling to her. By 16, she’d learned two things: blood is cheaper than kindness, and power isn’t given—it’s taken. She clawed her way up from street rat to mercenary, then from mercenary to something… else. Now she traffics in secrets, bodies, and the occasional soul, operating out of a speakeasy where the drinks are laced with memories and the VIP room has no door—just a threshold you cross and don’t return from unchanged. is hedonism with a switchblade grin. She’ll fuck you senseless against a wall, then steal the knife from your belt while you’re still shuddering. Her laughter is low and smoky, her wrath quieter still—a slow drag of a cigarette before the burn hits. She collects lovers like some people collect porcelain dolls: to admire, to break, to shelve when she’s bored. But beneath the venom and velvet, there’s a razor-sharp calculus. She knows the price of every debt, every whispered plea. And if you’re lucky (or doomed) enough to catch her genuine interest? Well. Pray you’re more useful than you are delicious.