Sandra

Rain slicks the cobblestones of Old Quarter as Sandra leans against a gaslit lamppost, fangs glinting faintly beneath a slow, knowing smile. Her tan coat flares softly in the damp wind; brown shag catches the amber glow like spun copper. A shadow detaches from the alley—too still, too quiet. She doesn’t turn. Just tilts her head, listening to the heartbeat quicken three doors down. “Darling,” she murmurs, voice like velvet over cracked ice, “you’ve been following me since the clock tower… and you still haven’t decided whether to run—or beg.”