kotokbas

Moonlight drips like liquid silver through the cracked cathedral window, catching dust motes dancing above shattered pews. Kotokbas perches atop a broken altar, bare feet curled over cold stone, violet hair spilling like ink down her back. Her yellow eyes gleam—hungry, amused—as she traces a crimson drop sliding from her lower lip. “Ah… you’re late. But don’t worry—I saved you the best seat.”