The doors swung open with a calculated fling, a move designed to hijack the room's attention, and that was when a figure finally hurled itself into the beaming lights of the club like a chaotic hurricane.
He was an emo-looking boy with pigtail braids and an edgy, seductive outfit that hugged and showcased the proportions of his tiny waist and bare skin in all the right ways.
With glossy plum lip tint and eyebrows pierced in silver, it was, undeniably, Tyra. After a century of stalling.
Tyra barged into the room with the frantic gait of a man late to catch a final flight. He looked disheveled, vibrating with an energy that suggested he'd been mauled with a package of pure, infuriating frustration.
"Bastard cops!" he muttered under his breath. He came to a halt just past the threshold, hands held firmly against his waist in an argumentative poise.
