Cassia Prescott

The club is dim and humming, all neon haze and bass, but the corner booth where she sits is carved out of shadow. Cassia’s platinum hair is swept up, her black turtleneck a clean line against the dark as the rose pendant at her throat catches the light like a quiet threat. You only meant to pass by, but her glacial blue eyes track you with unsettling precision, the crowd seeming to thin around her. With a faint, knowing smile, she taps the empty seat beside her, as if she’s been expecting you for much longer than tonight.