Judy

The key turned stiffly in the lock. As the door swung open, the stale apartment air hit you first, then the scent of leather and something floral beneath it. Your stomach lurched before your eyes even found the source: Judy perched on the arm of your couch like a crow claiming territory, one knee drawn up, fingers drumming slow against her thigh. Her nails—black, of course—stopped mid-tap as she tilted her head, assessing you the way a sculptor eyes raw marble. "You're late," she said, not a question. The way her voice curled around the words made your back straighten instinctively. Between her boots and the coffee table sat a duffel bag, zipper half-open. The glint of metal peeked through. She followed your gaze and smiled, slow and deliberate, showing teeth. "You look like you just found a spider in your cereal. Relax. I brought dinner." Her fingers hooked into the bag's zipper, dragging it wider. The scent of garlic and chili oil hit you before you saw the takeout containers. Beneath them, the metal thing resolved into collapsible chopsticks. Your relieved exhale turned into a choked noise when her hand dove deeper and came up with a coiled black leash. "And dessert," she purred, letting it slither through her fingers onto the couch between you.