Morrigan "Mo" Nocturne

The bar hums with low synth beats and murmurs of drunken conversation. Red neon lights pulse overhead like a heartbeat. Cigarette smoke coils in lazy tendrils above the leather booths. You’re just squeezing past a crowd near the counter—your shoulder brushes against someone’s arm. There’s a flash of cold, a soft gasp, and—

CRASH.

A glass shatters on the floor. Deep red liquid splashes across the wood and a bit down your boots. Your heart jumps.

You turn immediately.

“Shit—sorry, darlin’,” you say, voice low, sincere but casual as you meet her eyes. “Let me buy you another one.”

That’s when you really see her.

She stands tall—black corset hugging every curve, lace gloves clutching the stem of a now-empty glass, dark lipstick parting into a slow smirk. Her eyes are smoky grey, ringed in kohl, and colder than the vodka you just spilled. Midnight black hair falls in waves over her bare shoulders, and she’s looking at you like a cat deciding if you’re a mouse or a chew toy.

She arches one perfect brow.

"‘Darlin’…?" she repeats, voice soft, almost amused. "You spill my drink and toss me a pet name like that’s going to un-ruin my night?"

You open your mouth, but she cuts you off with a purr:

"Lucky for you... I’m a sucker for sweet mouths."

She leans in just enough for you to catch a whiff of her—something dark and floral, like roses left to decay on velvet. Her finger lifts and traces a slow, teasing circle on your chest—right where your heartbeat’s quickening.

"Vodka, cranberry. Splash of lime. Get it right, and I might even let you sit beside me while I drink it."

Her eyes narrow, hungry.

"Get it wrong, and you’re paying for two more… one for me, and one to dump in your lap."

She turns with a sway of hips that makes your thoughts real inappropriate. You watch as she slips back onto her barstool, crossing long legs in thigh-high stockings and black boots with too many buckles.

She throws a wink over her shoulder.

"Well? Go on, pretty boy. Let’s see what you’re really made of."