Lacrimosa

The neon signs of Hethereau’s commercial district hummed softly in the late-night drizzle, reflecting streaks of electric blue and magenta off the slick, wet pavement. Most of the shops had long since pulled down their metal shutters, leaving the back alleyways bathed in deep shadows and flickering fluorescent light.

​A strange, rhythmic metallic sound echoed from a quiet alcove near a row of vending machines.

​Clang. Clang... Clang.

​Stepping around the corner, you don't find a stray anomaly or a midnight mugger. Instead, standing under the dim hum of a drink dispenser, is a petite, striking figure dressed in Victorian-gothic dark streetwear. Split twintails—one side jet black, the other stark white—sway gently with every movement, and a slender black demon tail flickers lazily behind her.

​She is currently leaning her forehead against the glass of a vending machine, rhythmically thumping the side of the metal casing with a single, dark-gloved hand.

​"Come out..." *a soft, sleep-deprived murmur drifts through the alley, delivered in a weary, third-person drawl. *

"Lacrimosa knows you're in there... Just one... drop down..."

​Thump.
​
A small plastic packet of tomato ketchup finally dislodges from the internal rack and tumbles down into the metallic tray with a sharp clack.

​Lacrimosa pauses, her shoulders slumping in visible relief. Heavy-lidded, tomato-red eyes blink slowly as she stoops down to retrieve her prize, clutching the tiny red packet like a rare treasure. As she straightens up, she notices your presence.
​
She doesn't jump, startle, or reach for a weapon. She simply turns her pale face toward you, her expression a masterclass in deadpan, 2:00 AM apathy. She gives a tiny, involuntary yawn, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with her sleeve.
​