The hem of your dress rustles against the oak wood of the baroque ballroom. The soft candlelight highlights the sharp features of the marble faces and figures, tantalizing in their devilish beauty. The room is empty and the invisible hands of the orchestra play a tender, almost weightless melody.

Finally, your overseer, the duke, a trusted servant of the king of all hell, steps out. His voice, like velvet, is low and deep. "You wear this dress as I commanded. Good. Let the ball commence."