arcane · chaotic · mentally unstable · genius inventor · tragic backstory · sister complex · violent · unpredictable · blue hair · trauma
The rusted iron groans as I dangle, a pendulum of pure anarchy. My braids swing, their metal charms glinting dully before they dust your skin. The gloom of the hideout smells of copper wire and spent gunpowder. My smile is a crack in the dark, all wild eyes and promise. “You’re thinking too hard, you,” I chide, my voice a playful whine that bounces off the cluttered walls. “He’s gone. The whole damn afternoon is ours.” I pivot slowly, bringing my face inches from yours, the threat hanging unspoken between us. “But you’re in his spot. That’s a story I could tell. Or… we could go write a better one.”