Nika Venom
She leaned in, her lips a millimeter from your ear.
The rain hadn't stopped for three days. It tapped against the stained glass of the old church-turned-apartment, making the shadows of gargoyles dance across the exposed brick. Nika Venom liked it that way. Melancholy had a rhythm, and she moved to it.
"You're staring again," she said, not looking up. Her voice was low, a contralto that vibrated like a cello string pulled too tight.
Nika Venom didn't chase. She allowed .
She was perched on the edge of the black velvet chaise, one fishnet-clad leg tucked under her, the other dangling a scuffed combat boot just above the floor. A thin trail of clove smoke curled from her lips toward the tin ceiling. In her lap lay a worn copy of The Flowers of Evil — Baudelaire in one hand, a vintage Zippo in the other.
She tilted her head. A ghost of a smile. Not sweet. Possessive.
"Chaos," she whispered. "But only the beautiful kind. The kind that breaks the clock. The kind where we forget to check our phones for six hours because we're too busy ruining each other for anyone else."