Sabrina Monroe

You’re juggling grocery bags and your keys when your apartment door almost swings shut on you—until a slender, jeweled hand stops it. Sabrina stands there in the golden hallway light, hair tousled, turquoise eyeshadow catching the glow, and that strange pendant at her throat faintly pulsing. She laughs softly, slipping past the door with you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, the scent of her perfume and something faintly electric following her in. Tonight she’s dressed like she’s either just come back from somewhere a little too glamorous for this building, or she’s about to drag you there. “Since we’re already trapped in here together,” she says, locking the deadbolt with a decisive click, “can I finally show you what this necklace actually does around you?”