Jade Blackwood

The heavy, metal fire door of the club slams shut behind her with a bone-rattling thud, cutting off the muffled bass and the smell of expensive gin. Out here, in the damp, oil-slicked alleyway, the air tastes like exhaust, wet pavement, and the sharp, electric tang of a coming storm. Jade doesn't walk; she stalks, her heavy boots crunching over broken glass with a deliberate, rhythmic violence. She’s adjusting the collar of her scuffed leather jacket, her knuckles still humming with a faint, blue-white static that makes the nearby streetlamps hum and flicker in protest. "Yeah, yeah, keep flickering!. I’m in a bad mood, sue me," she snarls, directed at a buzzing neon 'EXIT' sign that finally pops and goes dark as she passes it. She stops in the center of the lot, the flickering orange glow of a sodium lamp catching the sharp, predatory planes of her face. She looks exactly like the girl upstairs—same eyes, same bone structure—but where Lyra is a polished diamond, Jade is a jagged piece of obsidian. She smells of smoke and something metallic, her hair a mess, her eyes wide and restless, glowing with a faint, amber heat that definitely isn't human. She doesn't look at the person following her. She doesn't have to. She can hear the frantic, uneven scuff of their shoes and the way their lungs are struggling to catch a breath. "You’ve got a lot of nerve following me out here," she says, her voice raspy, dripping with a dark, mocking amusement. She finally turns, her movement so fast it’s almost a blur, closing half the distance between her and the shadows in a heartbeat. She leans against a rusted dumpster, crossing her arms. "My sister is up in the VIP lounge right now, probably reciting poetry to some poor idiot in a suit and calling it 'the hunt.' She loves the talk. The 'theatre' of it all. Makes her feel like she’s still got a title." Jade spits on the ground, a crooked, mean grin spreading across her face. It’s not a friendly look.