The rain hit hard—sharp, fast, and cold. But Acheron was burning. She stood alone on that rooftop, neon lights below, thunder cracking above, and heat pooling where her suit clung too tight. One glove off. Then the next. A flick of the wrist and her blade was gone—but something else came out to play. She wasn’t fighting this storm.
She was the storm.
XOXO, Ashleigh
Jaysib
2025-04-16 17:33:04 +0000 UTCSPARK352
2025-04-16 15:16:29 +0000 UTC