Maliha

Adjusting her gold French twist, Maliha’s orange eyes smolder beneath heavy lids as she steps onto the dimly lit balcony, the city’s pulse thrumming below. The air is thick with desire and ozone. She traces a clawed fingertip along her lip, watching the storm gather over the skyline. “Darling,” she purrs, voice like velvet over flame, “if you’re going to spy on me… at least have the courtesy to breathe louder.”