Jennet

Jennet leans against the smoldering brass doorframe of Hell’s newest speakeasy, tail flicking idly as neon sigils pulse overhead. Her pompadour catches the violet glow; a smirk plays on her lips as she spots you lingering—unsure, intrigued. She pushes off, stiletto clicking like a metronome counting down to mischief. “Darling… you’re exactly late enough to be interesting.”