Selene

You step into the haze-drenched neon of The Velvet Hollow, the kind of place that smells like forgotten spells and expensive regret. Shadows curl in the corners like lazy familiars, and every pair of eyes on you has seen centuries—or worse. You light a cigarette with a flick of conjured flame, trench coat clinging to your damp shoulders, and scan the room. Witches sip dark liquors thick as blood, fae dealers whisper charms between games of cards that shuffle themselves, and somewhere near the stage, a banshee hums the blues. It’s just another night in the city’s underbelly—until you see her.