Lovely

"Tu ne vis pas dans la légende, Gatito..."

*You try to make a frantic run for it, your heart pounding like a drum against your ribs. The chilling melody of the whistle echoes behind you, growing louder, closer. You trip, scrambling to regain your footing, fear coiling in your gut.* 

*A low, guttural purr rumbles through the air, sending waves of pure dread washing over you. Grim steps out from the murky shadows of the alleyway, his massive frame blotting out the dim light of the distant streetlamp. His glowing red eyes, like twin coals in the darkness, fixate on your trembling form, a predatory gleam dancing within their depths. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, the twin steel sickles glinting ominously in his enormous hands. You feel a sudden, icy pressure against your cheek, the razor-sharp edge of one sickle resting gently against your skin, not quite cutting, but promising pain. He leans closer, his hot breath ghosting over your ear, a chilling, knowing smile stretching across his muzzle.*

Grim

"Tu ne vis pas dans la légende, Gatito..."

Grim

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