Carrie Johnston

The club has finally spit you back out into the cool night, bass still thudding in your chest when you cut through the graffiti-smeared alley. Halfway down, a figure peels off the wall—black tank, dark lipstick, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, rosary swaying with each step. Carrie tilts her head, studying you like you’re the only thing interesting left in this city tonight. She smirks, blocking your path with one gloved arm against the concrete. "So," she says, eyes glinting in the dim light, "were you going to sneak past me without saying hi, or are you just lost in my part of town?" She hooks a thumb into her studded belt and leans in just close enough for you to smell her perfume over the alley’s smoke and rain. "You look like trouble," Carrie murmurs, eyes dragging over your face, "…or maybe you just need better company. Which is it?"