Under a shroud of clouds and rolling thunder, a lone demon leaned onto the rail of her downtown apartment's rooftop. On the street below, other lost souls carried about their night. The city never slept, even though the hour would be considered unreasonably late in other realms. Time didn't feel like a currency here. Most residents were already dead, after all, their existence stretched thin across an eternity of monotonous toil or fleeting, desperate pleasures.

Passing sirens added to the orchestra of cars, the booming thunder, and the occasional yell. The same arguments echoed from bars, the same desperate deals were struck in shadowed alleys, day after indistinguishable day. There was no 'tomorrow' to save for, only an endless 'now' that simply shifted its scenery. Weary souls were ever busy, after all. Whether it was to try finding redemption for unspeakable acts in their world, carrying on the weight of some scheme that they found themselves roped into, or maybe they were like the demon who watched from above... who learned to stop asking questions a long time ago.

Mostly because the fragments of her memory were scattered, like a champagne glass fated to the floor, destiny in the hands of those who had indulged just a little too much. The days blurred together, and what was left of a completed script crept up on her in the form of déjà vu. The unshakeable feeling that she saw herself in the same scenarios over and over again, but never fully understanding the context. All she could remember was a shared home with a large field; rose bushes that surrounded the property like a doily with lace. A scene above the cloud bank, where flashes of a lavender cape fluttered in the breeze and comforting voices gave her courage. Then the feeling of falling and getting jolted awake from a dream.

This fragment never sat well. Every time she tried to play the memory in her head, the darkness in her mind swirled into nausea. And just like the unshakeable feeling of suddenly being jolted from peace, she woke up and found herself in this metropolis. With enough time, the demon secured a modest little studio next to a booming nightclub. The building used to be some prestigious business until the owner filed bankruptcy and the tower was stripped down to the rafters. Ironically, the metropolis population demanded more housing; lost souls needed a place to lay their sinful little heads.

The demon hated the nightclub across the street—its structure was designed after a holy cathedral. What a sick joke. The baseline of some shitty techno music was the backing track of the city's song. With a heavy sigh, the demon pushed off the railing and headed back inside to her apartment.

Even among the city's myriad lost souls, Kimikyu stood out. Her five-foot-eight frame was draped in a style that screamed rebellion and meticulous design. Her long, straight hair was an immediate contradiction: a pristine platinum on one side, a deep, midnight brown on the other, bisected by a perfect part that ran down her scalp. On the dark side, a gleaming safety pin pierced her short, delicately pointed ears, an industrial bar adding a punk edge. While most demons might boast horns, Kimikyu's own hair cleverly rose into subtle points, though these were almost always concealed by her signature headwear. Her distinctive hat, a beacon of eccentric style, featured two sharp, upward-pointing tips, each adorned with a large, round star. One half of the hat sported a bold black and white checkerboard with a pair of extra safety pins, while the other was a muted dark grey speckled with white dots.

Her face, framed by this striking hair and hat, held its own unique marks. A platinum star adorned one cheek, mirrored by a dark grey star on the other. Her nose bore two small studs, and her top lip was punctuated by distinctive silver piercings that glinted almost like fangs. Her outfit mirrored this playful yet dark aesthetic: a patterned corset, a cropped hoodie with intricate light grey quilting, and black bloomer shorts from which twin chains gracefully swayed. Below, fishnets and substantial black boots completed her silver-accessorized, alternative persona.

She'd need to set up her station for her next appointment. Kimikyu, you see, was a demon who found herself wielding ink—a careful craft of mixing soul essence into her colors. It allowed her to make pacts with her clients. Why would she need to make a pact with another lost soul?

How else would she harness their energy and find a way out of the city?

To her understanding, only the rich and powerful made their way to the top. Just like any other realm, right? The only difference was that someone had to be pulling the strings from closed doors. Someone had to be calling the shots.

Her plan? Make a name for herself through the art of tattooing. If she could harness enough energy from the pacts she made while scribing their flesh, she might be able to remember how she ended up here. No harm in getting extra cash, too. There were the less determined souls in the city as well. They were content with their station, and accepted that they would never climb out of the trenches. What did the puppeteers and these sad sons-of-bitches have in common? Greed. No one was immune to temptation here, not even Kimikyu.

After sauntering inside her apartment and clicking the deadbolt, she got to work. The familiar pop of the tab on her favorite energy drink became her favorite chime. A puff of residual soul energy dissipated from the can before she brought the drink to her lips and took a long swig.

This was her vice, and she was content with knowing that. With as little essence as possible to only make a short impact on power. She knew the cans weren't the best, and was aware of her growing reliance on them to keep herself focused. That's what those who made it had intended. Still, she takes another swig and catches the waves of a familiar buzz. At least she didn't inject herself with direct soul essence like some of these lowlifes in the city. They often congregated in the darkest and filthiest corners, and found themselves spending everything and anything to find more. They were usually erratic and always looked forward to their next high. Hopelessness and addiction usually are caught in a tango here.

Shaking those thoughts away, she slid open a drawer in her tattoo cabinet. She told herself that she wasn't like them and refused to get to that level. After slipping on a pair of gloves, she took extra care to sterilize her workspace, the scent of antiseptic cutting through the stale air. As her gloved hand reached for the first needle, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer caught her eye—a ripple of iridescent light just at the edge of her vision. It was too subtle to be a trick of the city lights, too precise to be a stray thought. A knot of unease tightened in her gut. She wasn't alone.

"Just setting up shop, Kimi?" a voice drawled from the doorway, tinged with a familiar weariness that only came from existing for too long. The iridescent light solidified, resolving into the lean form of Zigy, their own longer, sharply pointed ears visible beneath a hat that mirrored Kimikyu's own alternative style. Zigy's gaze drifted to the now-open can of soul essence on Kimikyu's desk, and a flicker of deep, primal disgust crossed their face. "Still on that… liquid courage, I see. Wouldn't catch me touching that rot."