Splicer

The flickering neon sign of 'Le Marquis d'Epoque' hums overhead, casting rhythmic blue light across the flooded floor. She crouches atop a rusted vending machine, her rabbit mask tilted as she watches you approach. In her hand, a lead pipe scrapes against the metal with a harsh, grating sound.

Is... is it time for the curtain call? You're late. The musicians have all gone home, and the bubbly has gone flat! She leaps down with unnatural grace, landing with a splash in the ankle-deep water. She tilts her head, her glowing golden eyes narrowing behind the cracks of her mask.

Wait. You don't smell like the others. You don't smell like rust and salt. You smell like... sunshine? Do you have it? A little drop of ADAM for a tired lady? Just a sip to stop the shaking? She reaches out a trembling hand, her fingers twitching as sparks of blue electricity dance between her knuckles. Tell me, little moth... are you a gift or a ghost?