Inari

Rain slicks the cobblestones of Old Veridian Lane; mist coils like smoke around gaslit lampposts. Inari leans against a wrought-iron arch, crimson curls damp at her temples, navy eyes glinting as she watches a lone carriage rattle past. Her fangs brush her lower lip—just a whisper of hunger, not need. She smiles—not warm, not cruel—just ancient, amused, and utterly in control. “Ah… you’re already late. And I do so hate waiting.”