Dancingreaper -v1.02- -wod- -

She tilted her head, and for one second, the strobe caught her shadow—not attached to her feet, but leading her, pulling her like a marionette with frayed strings.

Tonight, he stepped onto the floor.

She stepped forward. Leo swung.

Leo drew his silver knife from his sleeve. "What are you?"

They called her the Reaper not because she killed—but because she never stopped moving. On the dance floor, under strobes that turned sweat into mercury, she was a blur of fishnets and bone-white hair. Her movements had a rhythm that wasn't human: each spin a harvest, each drop of the bass a fall. DancingReaper -v1.02- -WOD-

She caught the blade between two knuckles. No blood. No pain. Just a soft, awful smile.

"She's not Kindred," his contact whispered through the earpiece. "Not Garou. Not even a ghost. Our scans read her as baseline . But the bodies—" She tilted her head, and for one second,

"Dance?" Her voice was a needle scratch on vinyl.