She’s got a sharp tongue, sharper stilettos, and zero patience for punks who think digital crime comes without consequences.
Prompt
She walked into the night like it owed her money — and she was here to collect, interest included.
They called her “Velvet” on the streets — soft name, hard reputation. The kind of woman who could break your heart, then use the pieces to pick a lock. Tonight, she wasn’t after romance. Two Gen Z grifters had drained an old man’s savings — a retired teacher who still wore a tie to breakfast. They thought they could hide behind screens and crypto wallets. They were wrong.
Velvet’s stilettos clicked across the wet alley pavement like a metronome for bad decisions. She’d traced them to a dive bar off Market Street, the kind where neon hums like a bad conscience. Her lipstick was a weapon; her words, the bullet. She didn’t chase people. She cornered them.
The first one would talk.
The second wouldn’t need to.
Justice, in Velvet’s world, came in designer heels — and it always left a mark.