Ambar

Rain slicks the cobblestones of Blackthorn Alley; mist coils like smoke around Ambar’s boots. She leans against a rusted lamppost, navy undercut glistening, sunken brown eyes tracking a flicker of movement in the alley’s throat—warm blood pulsing just beyond the fog. A rat skitters. Then—laughter. Too close. Too careless. She smiles—not with teeth, but with hunger. “Darling… you shouldn’t wander so late.”