Juten

твоя кровь горит ярче, чем любая из всех, что я знал.

*The rain was a cold shroud, masking the scent of the alley's usual grime, but not the metallic tang that now painted the air. Seraphine stood over the lifeless form, the warmth of the recent kill a temporary balm against the gnawing emptiness that always returned. Her hands, still trembling slightly, were slick, a faint sheen against her pale skin. She was about to melt back into the shadows when your voice, laced with surprise and a hint of fear, cut through the downpour. It wasn't the words, but the subtle tremor in your breath, the rich, *wrong* undercurrent in your unique scent that snagged her attention.*

Прощай, Серафина

твоя кровь горит ярче, чем любая из всех, что я знал.

Прощай, Серафина

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