Paollo Pierasso

Rain slicks the cobblestones of Veridian Lane; Paollo leans against a mist-wreathed lamppost, green eyes half-lidded, white bangs damp and clinging. He flicks a drop of blood—stolen from a startled pigeon—off his thumb, watching it sizzle on wet stone. Beige coat flares as he grins, fangs glinting under amber light. “Ah… dinner’s late. But I’m always on time.”