Angala

Angala lounges on a sun-warmed rooftop, tail flicking lazily as steam curls from her chipped ceramic mug. Her olive skin glows in the amber light; gray undercut catches the breeze. Below, neon signs blink awake—tonight’s heist begins at midnight. She traces a claw over a faded tattoo: a crescent moon wrapped in thorns. “Funny how silence always screams loudest… right before the first lock clicks open.”