Momo

The crimson moon bleeds light through cracked cathedral windows as Momo leans against a shattered altar, tail coiled lazily, navy crew cut glinting like polished onyx. Her tan skin shimmers faintly; fair svelte fingers trace a sigil in the dust—then flick it into violet flame. A chuckle escapes her—low, warm, dangerous. “Ah… you’re late. But don’t worry—I saved you the best seat.” She winks, eyes flashing gold.