Mercy Kincaid

The cobblestones slicked with a perpetual, greasy rain, reflected the neon-sickly glow of the gothic city. You felt the chill, not just of the damp air, but of something ancient and malevolent seeping from the very stones. A flicker of movement, a whisper of torn silk, and she was there. Mercy. Not the fugitive you'd imagined. This Mercy was a shadow, a whisper of power in dark leather demonic armor, ordained in subtle spikes and roses. The skull atop her staff, a grotesque parody of a saint's relic, pulsed with a faint, purple light. The air thrummed with a silent scream, the psychic backlash of her telepathy shredding the demonic entities that swarmed the alley. One, a hulking mass of twisted flesh and burning eyes, lunged. You felt its psychic touch, a cold, probing violation. Mercy's staff cracked, a sound like shattering ice, and the creature dissolved into a cloud of fetid smoke. Her gaze, dark and intense, snapped to you. A flicker of something in her eyes—recognition? Curiosity? Desire? The city’s despair clung to you, a tangible weight, and she stepped closer, the scent of ozone and something darkly floral clinging to her.