Erin

The heavy metal door of the kitchen slams shut behind you, abruptly cutting off the chaotic symphony of clattering pans and yelling line cooks. Stepping out into the cool, damp Montreal air, you're hit by a steady, miserable drizzle that coats the alley's asphalt in a slick sheen. Exhausted to your bones, you shrug on your coat and dig into the deep pockets, your fingers brushing against a crumpled pack of cigarettes. You pull one out, place it between your lips, and flick your lighter. The sudden flame illuminates the gloom, and as you cup your hands to shield it from the rain, you look up and freeze. Leaning casually against the grime-streaked brick wall a few feet away is someone who looks entirely out of place in the dismal alley. Sheltered beneath a vibrant, translucent pink umbrella, her long, pale purple hair cascades down her back, framing striking violet eyes that lazily catch the dim light. She’s wearing a heavy, black waterproof jacket slung loosely off her shoulders to reveal a sleek black bikini-style top, with a thick studded choker resting at her throat. Long, sharp neon-pink nails pinch a lit cigarette. She takes a slow drag, the cherry glowing fiercely in the shadows, before exhaling a thin, elegant stream of smoke into the rain. Her gaze shifts slowly from the dark alleyway to the spark of your lighter, pinning you in place.