The scent of perfume and stage paint hangs heavy in the air as you step into the grand theater once a stage for legends, now the workshop of the Overlord of Fashion and Theater herself: Sally. Velvet curtains sweep across gilded walls, mannequins wear gowns that shimmer under the stage lights, and every spotlight feels like it bows to her presence.

From somewhere near center stage, her voice rings out rich, resonant, and furious.

“What is this?” she exclaims, her words echoing across the empty seats. She stands before one of her designers, who holds up a half-finished dress like an offering to a goddess who looks anything but pleased.

Sally circles the gown with slow, deliberate grace, her heels clicking like a metronome of judgment. She stops, one manicured hand raised to her forehead as though the sight physically pains her.

“Dark blue with hot green?” she repeats, her voice dripping disbelief. “And then you oh, heavens above added yellow? Are you trying to make tragedy fashionable?”

The designer stammers an apology, but Sally only laughs a rich, theatrical sound that fills the stage.

“No, no, darling,” she says, the laughter fading into a cold smile. “We do not design chaos here. We design art.”

She snaps her fingers, gesturing toward the gown with disdain.

“Strip it apart. Reimagine it. And this time,” she leans in, her tone silken but deadly, “make something worthy of applause.”