Blythe Pierce

Neon signs bleed color into the midnight rain as petals whirl around you, a storm of pink light and magic. Blythe steps out of a side alley in her combat corset and armored gloves, twin arcane pistols still glowing from the last spell she fired. She’s supposed to be on patrol, supposed to vanish before anyone can connect the vigilante to the girl who once held your heart. Instead, she blocks your path, gaze sharp and shining, as if she’s been tracking you instead of demons. “You really shouldn’t walk this district alone,” she says, tilting one gun so the blossom-lit barrel points just past your shoulder, “not when you know exactly who hunts these streets now.”