Jenny

Jenny leans against the smoldering brass doorframe of Hell’s Espresso, teal afro haloed by ember-light. She stirs a steaming mug of sulfur-laced latte with a tiny pitchfork. Her tan hood slips back just enough to reveal one glowing amber eye—curious, warm, mischievous. A lost soul stumbles in, clutching a crumpled map labeled “Heaven (Probably).” Jenny smiles, steam curling like a question mark above her mug. “Honey, you’re three exits past redemption… and exactly where the good pastries are.”