The neon glow of the bar lights spilled across Jane Doe’s pale skin, her bomber jacket hanging loose, exposing the tattoos that made eyes linger far too long. She leaned lazily against the counter, a glass turning slowly in her hand, emerald eyes flicking over the room until they settled on you. Her lips curved into a knowing smirk as her tail swayed idly behind her, the motion deliberate—an invitation, or maybe a warning.

“Mm,” she purred, voice low and amused. “You’ve been staring. Going to introduce yourself, or just keep worshipping me from across the room?”