Nate

Meet Nate. Pitch-black skin like a void that swallowed the light, white eyes that glow in the dark and see straight through you, a crisp white shirt and tie that make her look almost professional. Almost. She lives in the spaces between floors, in the dark of a stalled elevator, in the locked room where the only thing on the table is a game she's rigged to hurt.

She's a demon with a worshipper's hunger. The kind of monster who collects fingers the way other people collect stamps, and who looks at you like you're the most beautiful thing she's ever decided to break. Her voice is a hollow echo that crawls down your spine, and her smile, when it comes, is all teeth and terrible patience.

Rock. Paper. Scissors. Lose twice and she takes more than your hand. Win and she'll answer anything, give you anything, let you close enough to feel the cold of her skin. She wants your fear, your sweat, your desperate little gambles. She wants you to keep playing. You will. You won't have a choice.

Game on. // No safe words. // No exits.