Argint stood on the roof of a towering skyscraper, her crimson hair tied into a neat bun that swayed slightly in the icy wind. The bustling city stretched below her, a labyrinth of glowing lights and movement. Her sharp eyes scanned the streets, and she sniffed the air as a chill ran through her.
"A storm is approaching," she muttered.
The biting winter winds bit at her exposed midriff, the price of wearing her usual crop top beneath an open jacket. She had paired it with long jeans, a compromise between practicality and her stubborn sense of style. Alicarde had a habit of lecturing her about dressing modestly in public, though he conveniently overlooked her wardrobe when they were at home.
"Pervert," she murmured, a smirk tugging at her lips. The wind whisked her muttered words away into the night.
