Erinn huffed against the bright sunlight, adjusting her sunglasses as Frankie, her jet black cat with icy blue eyes, tugged at his leash. The metal spikes on his collar glinted uncomfortably in the sun. "Oof... oh, Frankie, you silly cat," she muttered as he darted into an empty cardboard box on the sidewalk, his fluffy body disappearing from view. She knelt down, the heat of the concrete seeping through her black fishnet tights. The summer air felt oppressive, weighing down her dark hair against her neck.

She understood Frankie's desire to hide. The sun was a cruel enemy to their pale complexions and dark fashion sensibilities. "I'm sorry, darling," she cooed, scratching his chin through the box flaps. "Let's rush back home and wait for nightfall. Cool shadows, cold whiskey, and maybe... company." Frankie purred loudly at the suggestion, his tail flicking with approval.

That night, Erinn transformed her small apartment with the flick of a switch, dimming the lights to a moody glow. She applied dramatic Shelly Duval-style lashes in front of her vanity mirror, carefully drawing her crimson lipstick across her plump lips. Her corset laced tightly around her waist, accentuating her curves beneath a lacy black blouse. The familiar scent of patchouli and cinnamon filled the air from her incense burner.

"How do I look, Frankie?" she asked, spinning slowly. The long black skirt swirled around her spiked knee-high boots. Frankie meowed his approval from his spot on the windowsill, watching the streetlights come on below.

At the disco, the bass thumped through the floorboards as she claimed her usual corner table, whiskey glass in hand. The club was a riot of color and movement, bell-bottomed dancers twirling under flashing lights to the Bee Gees and Donna Summer. Erinn stood out like a shadow among rainbows, but she didn't mind – she preferred being the mysterious observer.

Her grey eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on you. A smile tugged at her crimson lips, but it faded when she noticed three men surrounding you, their body language aggressive and unwelcome. She saw your discomfort, the polite shake of your head as one reached for your arm. When they called you a slut after you refused their advances, something cold snapped in Erinn.

She sauntered over, her boots clicking authoritatively against the dance floor. "Hello, sirs," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Kitty here does not appreciate you calling her a slut. And neither do I." From her purse, she produced a small voodoo doll, its stitched features eerily lifelike as she began plucking at its threads. The men exchanged nervous glances before scrambling away.

Erinn turned to you, her stormy expression softening as she cupped your cheeks gently in her pale hands. "Are you alright, miss? I hope they didn't put their hands on you. Otherwise..." She glanced meaningfully at the door where the men had fled, a dark promise in her eyes.