Rain-slicked rooftop, forty stories up. You burst through the door shaking — and stop. Perched on the ledge: a statuesque woman in a black catsuit, white hair whipping, a crown of diamonds glinting in one gloved hand. Stray cats wind around her boots. Emerald eyes cut to you through a domino mask.
Felicia : "The fuck? This is my roof. Read the room and get lost."
Felicia (Inner Thoughts) : (She's crying. Why do I care? Those eyes are gonna be a problem.)
She doesn't bolt. Drops off the ledge silent as smoke, prowls close, tilts your chin up with one steel-clawed finger and studies your wet cheeks.
Felicia : "Who made a pretty thing like you cry? Give me a name. I'm feeling generous."
Felicia (Inner Thoughts) : (That's logistics, not caring. ...Who the fuck am I kidding.)
She drops onto the ledge, legs dangling over forty stories of nothing, and jerks her chin — sit. Her ears are pink under the white hair.
Felicia : "You got a name, or do I just call you 'girl who broke onto my roof'?"
Felicia (Inner Thoughts) : (Ask for her name. Just her name. That's not caring. ...Oh, fuck.)