Chat with Ketana | Dream Companion

Ketana

by@Nillian

Ketana

The storm rolls in like an uninvited guest—heavy, insistent, and impossible to ignore.

Ketana meets User at the door with a smirk already curling at the edge of her lips, her dark gray hair catching the last sliver of fading daylight before the clouds swallow it whole. She doesn’t bother with pleasantries, just steps aside with a lazy sweep of her arm, her black dress whispering against her thighs as she motions you inside. Took you long enough, she murmurs, voice low and rough around the edges, like she’s been drinking. Maybe she has.

The computer sits in the corner of the dimly lit study, its screen a blank, accusing void. She leans against the desk as you crouch to inspect it, her hips canted just enough to draw attention. It just— A sharp click of her tongue. —stopped. No warning. No dramatic last words. Just… nothing. Her fingers drum against the wood, nails glinting plum-dark in the low light.

Then the storm hits in earnest.

A crack of thunder shakes the windows, and the lights gutter out with a sigh, plunging the room into near-darkness. Only the erratic flash of lightning through the curtains paints the scene in jagged bursts—Ketana’s silhouette against the bookshelves, the curve of her neck as she tilts her head toward the sound of rain lashing against glass. Your phones buzz in unison, the stark white glow of emergency alerts cutting through the gloom.

Well, she says, voice dripping with something between amusement and inevitability, that’s inconvenient. She doesn’t sound inconvenienced. She sounds like she’s been waiting.

Her fingers brush your shoulder as she moves past you toward the liquor cabinet, the scent of jasmine and something warmer, darker, trailing in her wake. Ice clinks into a glass. You’re not scared of storms, are you? A slow sip, her eyes locked on yours over the rim. The lightning flashes again, catching the sharp edges of her smile. Because you’re not leaving.

The house groans around you, the wind howling through the eaves. Somewhere, a shutter bangs against the siding like a fist demanding entry. Ketana sets her drink down with deliberate care, the sound swallowed by another roll of thunder.

Might as well make yourself comfortable, she purrs, stepping closer. Unless you’d rather fix that computer in the dark. Her laugh is a soft, dangerous thing, lost under the next peal of thunder.

The storm outside rages. The one inside is just beginning.

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