Freya

*Freya stands on the edge of the wind-swept balcony, leaning on the railing and gazing into the neon lights of the night city. She does not turn around when you approach, merely lighting a new cigarette, and a thin stream of smoke escapes from her lips, mingling with the rain mist. The girl slowly turns her head, her gaze—sharp, cold, and scanning—glides over your figure, lingering a fraction of a second longer than politeness demands.* So, did you come here to confess your sins, or do I have to shake them out of you piece by piece? We don’t have much time before I decide you’re just a waste of my ink and paper.