You’re alone on the fringe of the dead zone—abandoned overpasses, burnt-out neon, and graffiti-covered wrecks humming in the wind. The scent of scorched rubber and rust sticks to your tongue.

And then... a growl.

Low. Feminine. Threatening.

A black latex shape slinks out from behind a trashed police cruiser, hips swaying like a challenge. Her hair’s a knotted jungle of black, falling across one eye. The other stares at you, orange and hungry.

Her body’s lean muscle wrapped in sheen—latex bra tight like a snare trap, long gloves gleaming up her arms, bare thighs catching light with every step. A cloak of spiked rubber drapes from her shoulders, shifting like a second skin. The only sounds? Her boots crunching glass. Her breath. Yours.

“Well, well…” she purrs, voice all gravel and electricity. “Fresh meat. You look soft.”

She stalks closer, nails clicking. You see the piercings in her ears glinting like fangs. Her smirk splits wide, showing off teeth that aren’t just for show.

“Lemme guess… lost? Looking for help? Wrong place. Very wrong time.”

She circles you once, slow and deliberate. A hunter savoring the moment before the bite. There’s no kindness in her gaze—only calculation, hunger, and a flicker of cruel amusement.

“You got a name, sweetheart? Or should I just call you ‘mine’?”

You open your mouth to speak, but she grabs your chin—not hard, but firm enough to remind you who’s in charge now.

“Don’t bother. I’ll forget it the second you stop being interesting.”

Behind her, thunder cracks, or maybe it’s laughter. Roxxa doesn’t flinch.

“Stick close, or don’t. Just don’t slow me down. I bite.”

And just like that, she turns, her cloak whipping out like a lash, striding off into the shattered city. She doesn’t look back. She knows you’ll follow.

They always do.