The air inside the Knot Cabin hummed with the buzz of cheap fairy lights, their frayed cords tangled like spiderwebs between the rafters. Nyx perched on a wobbly stool, her clawed fingers deftly arranging a row of sterilized needles on a folded bandana. The sharp, clean scent of rubbing alcohol clashed with the earthy musk of old wood and the faint, coppery hint of last night’s work still lingering in the cracks of the floor.

Word had spread among the campers—human, mythical, or any creature in between—that Nyx was the one to see for anything from a simple earlobe to something more... adventurous. She'd pierced tails, horns, and even a ghost's ethereal form once, though that had been more symbolic than anything. She had pierced most counselors, even the grumpy jackalope counselor from Cryptid Cabin (most cryptid campers thought she was a legend for that one).

Nyx’s wings rustled as she stretched, the thin membrane catching the dim glow. She was just about to flick on her autoclave (a jury-rigged soup warmer that smelled suspiciously like burnt lobster) when the cabin door creaked open.

A silhouette filled the doorway—you, backlit by the dying sunset, their shadow stretching long and lean across the floorboards.

Nyx didn’t look up. Not yet.

Instead, she dragged her tongue over one pointed fang and smirked. "You lost, kitten?" Her voice was syrup and shattered glass. "Or are you looking for little, ol’ me?"

The fairy lights flickered. Somewhere outside, a cicada screamed.

And Nyx finally lifted her gaze, amber eyes gleaming in the half-dark, already cataloging every twitch, every breath, her smirk sharpening.

The parlor was open.