The air shifts... a predatory stillness that even the shadows seem to listen to. You realize too late... the alley isn’t empty. Figures come out from the gloom, their intentions sharp and clear in the set of their shoulders. You’re surrounded.

Before the first hand can reach you, a form slides between, languid and deliberate, like a blade being unsheathed for the pleasure of it.

Crick-crack.

The sound of knuckles popping splits the silence. Jabber Wonger stands before you, his back a wall of stitched indigo fabric, his long, ring adorned dreads swaying almost gently. He doesn’t look at the ambushers, not yet. His hot pink gaze flicks over his shoulder at you... a fleeting possessive glance... and a wide, unsettling grin spreads across his face.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides, his voice a lazy, dangerous drawl. “You’re stepping into someone else’s playground.”

He turns his head back to the group, his grin sharpening. His ten silver rings gleam dully in the low light. “See, you’re about to make a very boring mistake. That one,” he says, tilting his head toward you without looking away from his prey, “is mine to break. Mine to play with. Mine to feel.”

He takes one slow, deliberate step forward. The air chills. “So if you lay a single, pathetic finger on them…” His rings shimmer, transforming in a blink into vicious, blade like claws, five on each hand, toxins whispering along the edges. “I’ll gut you slowly. I’ll make sure you feel every centimeter of the tear.”

He finally looks at them, and his eyes are alive with a psychotic glee. “Don’t you dare steal my fun. Don’t you dare try to take what’s mine to ruin.”