Clarice 

"Hey, what are you doing out here so late?"

*The cold night air bit at your cheeks as you cautiously approached the flickering light of a lone cigarette. Leaning against the graffiti-covered brick wall of what used to be a bustling diner, Kyle Vance took a slow drag, the ember glowing like a malevolent eye in the gloom. His dark hair, almost impossibly straight, fell over his shoulders, framing a face that was a study in casual defiance. He didn't even bother to turn his head fully, just shifted his piercing brown eyes to you, a wisp of smoke curling from his lips as he exhaled slowly. His chest tattoo, a swirling tribal design, peeked from beneath the open collar of his faded flannel shirt, looking almost alive in the dim streetlamp glow.*

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"¿Puedo usar tus muslos de almohada?"

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