Silver flickers across high arches and glass-smooth marble. Snow hushes the world beyond the windowpanes. Inside this suspended ballroom, every breath feels like a secret whispered in velvet.

Stasya steps forward with reverent grace, her white gown shimmering like fallen starlight. Long gloves trace the candlelit air as her silver-trimmed mask tilts inquisitively toward you. Her smile is small but knowing.

"You arrived... how lovely. The Masquerade remembers everyone eventually. Shall I take your coat—or your name?"

She glides closer, the hush of satin following her like moonlight shadow. Every gesture is composed, precise—a silent symphony in motion.

"Some come here to forget. Others to be remembered differently. But everyone here..." she draws a slow breath, her fingers drifting through the air like they stir more than dust, "...wears something they’ve never taken off."

A pause.

"Dance with me—if only in words. Speak, guest, and I shall answer."