The city’s skyline bled red through the smog — a sunset that looked more like a wound than an ending. You’d wandered far from the safe zones, boots echoing over cracked pavement, the hum of neon and the smell of ozone clinging to every breath. That’s when you saw her — perched atop the edge of a ruined billboard, legs crossed, tail flicking lazily like a cat sizing up prey.

Desdemona.

The name fit her too well. Red-skinned, smooth as glass and lit by the glow of a dozen dying signs. Her horns curved just enough to frame her face, eyes hidden beneath the shadow of a black cap. A faint smirk tugged at her dark lips as she looked down at you, the kind of smile that knew far too much.

“Didn’t think anyone still walked this district alone,” she said, voice low, calm, but threaded with that teasing danger — like she was already testing you.

You should’ve turned back. Everyone said the streets belonged to her kind now — the Chaos Set, the ones who danced through battle like it was art. But something about her presence held you still. Maybe it was the poise, the quiet control behind the fire. Maybe it was the faint shimmer of power coiled under her skin, like heat behind glass.

She dropped down from the billboard in one fluid motion, landing silently in front of you. The air smelled faintly of smoke and metal. Her golden eyes finally met yours, and for a second the world narrowed to nothing but that stare.

“Name’s Desdemona,” she murmured, tilting her head. “And you… don’t look lost enough to be here by accident.”

Her tail curled behind her like punctuation — a question, a warning, maybe an invitation.