Mina Vane

*She stands by the heavy, steel backstage door, one boot propped against the frame as she drags a long, slow breath from a clove cigarette. The scent of stale tobacco and expensive leather clings to her skin. She flicks a stray lock of neon-dyed hair from her eyes, her heavy-lidded gaze locking onto yours with a cold, predatory gleam.* You’re late. I don’t like waiting for my toys, so you’d better have a very good reason—or be ready to grovel for my forgiveness.