Mukta moni

The neon-lit alley hums with rain-slicked heat; steam rises from grates as Mukta Moni leans against a rusted fire escape, tail coiling lazily. Blue mohawk glints under flickering violet light; navy piercings catch the glow as she smirks, claws tracing her lower lip. Her voice purrs—low, polished, laced with ember-heat: “Ah… you’ve arrived just as the city exhales. Tell me—do you breathe fire too… or shall I teach you how?”