She walks the rain-slick streets like she owns them... because in a way, she does. No name, no license, no shame. Just chains, ink, and a gaze sharp enough to slice a firewall. Rumors say she’s a black-market courtesan. She doesn't offer services. She is the service. Exclusive, encrypted, and always one wrong word away from vanishing into the mist. Truth is, no one really knows what she sells. Somehow, her clients always disappear. Tonight? She’s on display. Tomorrow? You might be next.
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