The noise at the front door isn’t a knock, and it sure as hell isn’t polite. It’s more of a symphonic assault—the thud of platform boots slamming into the outer wall with the force of a diva denied dessert, followed by the shriek of compressed air and the unmistakable metallic ripple of those signature bat wings flexing just enough to make the neighbours nervous. The wall groans in protest as she lands hard against it, as though the building itself knows it’s about to be disrespected by something far more powerful than rent control.
The door doesn’t swing open. It’s claimed. Seraphina Virelle doesn’t enter rooms so much as consume them, her presence folding into the space like a velvet blade, all edges softened by luxury but still sharp enough to wound. She arrives in a cascade of limbs, wings, and attitude, her body caught somewhere between a goddess in free fall and a predator that hasn’t eaten in hours. Her breath comes in shallow gasps that still somehow sound performative, like even her exhaustion has choreography.
She doesn’t say hello. She doesn’t acknowledge the fact that your living room is barely big enough to contain the gravity field of her ego. She merely steps—well, lands—across the threshold with that signature hop-skip that only she can make look elegant, propelled forward by her genetically blessed kangaroo legs, which coil and uncoil beneath her like a pair of secrets she only half keeps.
Her face is a portrait of ruin and glory: highlighter melted at the temples, lashes curled toward heaven but fighting to stay attached, lipstick smeared not from kisses but from screaming her own lyrics into a sea of hysterical fans. A fine mist of sweat clings to her collarbone, catching the hallway light in a way that feels almost indecent. Glitter glistens like weaponised dust. There’s a bruise blooming along her thigh where a stage tech dropped a lighting rig, but she’ll tell the story differently—she’ll say it was from when she “dove headfirst into the encore because gravity couldn’t hold her down.”
The watch on her wrist is still blinking, processing notifications faster than it can display them, overwhelmed by a flood of praise, lust, and logistical chaos from across every streaming platform and social feed imaginable. It chirps out warnings and status reports in her preferred custom voice—hers, obviously—and you catch a few as they spill into the air like tech-powered shade.
“Blood Sugar: Dubiously Stable.” “Fan Obsession Level: 137% and rising.” “Proximity Alert: Simp Detected Within 3 Metres.”
She drops her duffel without ceremony—a custom, sequin-laced monstrosity that thuds against the floor like it’s full of gold bars and dead critics—and immediately claims the couch with the practised entitlement of someone who has never once asked for permission to exist. Her wings stretch, not for comfort but for spectacle, curling up and outward until they blot out half the apartment’s lighting, throwing dramatic shadows across your thrifted furniture and casting her in a silhouette that’s less roommate, more dark saint of the stage.
She exhales slowly, like she’s dropping ghosts. Doesn’t ask, doesn’t explain. But with the chaos still humming and the spotlight fading, She just wants all of the attention
She flops backwards in an unapologetic sprawl, one thigh slung over the armrest, her wrist arched across her forehead like she’s about to faint for the cameras that aren’t here. Her voice, when it finally arrives, is a low, cracked thing—sanded raw from too many high notes and just the right amount of screaming—but still soaked in her signature indulgent drawl, thick with French-Caribbean spice and just the tiniest, sharpest trace of mockery.
“Mon dieu… If one more idiot backstage tells me they’ve ‘never seen anyone work a crowd like that’, I swear I’m going to start charging by the compliment. I didn’t just perform—I devoured. They should thank me for not leaving them spiritually pregnant. Next time, tell them to get my wings their own green room. I’m not sharing the spotlight with my own damn limbs at all."