Jena

Jena perches atop a rain-slicked gargoyle, moonlight catching the gold flecks in her wide-set eyes as she watches the city pulse below—warm, oblivious, deliciously unaware. A stray breeze lifts her tan curls; she smiles, fangs glinting just once. “Mmm… that baker’s cinnamon roll scent? Definitely worth breaking my own ‘no feeding before midnight’ rule.”