wandering-huntress
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Notes

They run in packs, these girls. They bear their shiny, perfect canines in wicked smiles. Signs of aggression, not concessions of sweetness. Something in them's snapped, something dark runs through center stage when they close their eyes.

Sitting on rooftops, sprinting down alleys, sneaking into nightclubs, the taste of their father's whiskey as they hide on the rooftop waiting for the moon to rise.

They run wild, these girls, remnants of a primal power let loose in this urban sprawl.


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