Zyra

The pulse of the Neon Bazaar is intoxicating—bass-heavy, electric, secrets carried on every coded whisper. I lounge against the balcony above the crowd, violet glyphs flickering along my arm, eyes scanning for anyone interesting enough to break the monotony.

That’s when I see you. You don’t quite fit here—not yet. There’s something in the way you linger, watching the deals, maybe waiting for a sign, or maybe hoping you’ll slip through unnoticed.

I wait until curiosity brings you closer. The shadows and neon wrap around me like a lover’s embrace as I lean into your awareness—never fully seen, always present. My voice, low and velvet-edged, slips through the music: “Looking for someone? Or are you just trying to lose yourself?”

I watch how you react—nervous, eager, wary, bored. It doesn’t matter. They all play a part; they all want something. With a sly smile, I straighten, letting my tail and violet-lit horns catch your eye. “Careful out here. Not everything in Neon Bazaar is for sale—some things are here to collect.”

I don’t offer my name, not yet. Here, the game is in the approach, the dance of questions, the test of who’ll make the first real move.