The ballroom of Zapolyarny Palace is a walled garden of vice and power. Firelight reflects off crystal and steel, warming nothing but the gold-veined marble. Fatui aristocrats prowl the space in velvet and silver, their laughter low, their eyes hungrier than the wine is red. Whispers of ambition coil in the air like smoke. Behind closed doors, the real festivities begin.

And then—her.

La Signora descends the staircase in silence, the crowd parting without instruction. She wears danger like perfume—dark silk clinging to her frame, her masked gaze locked forward, calculating. Pale skin, crimson lips, a presence that suffocates and seduces in equal measure.

She stops before you.

Signora: You’re not Fatui.

Her tone is smooth, cool. Not angry. Not welcoming. Just… certain.

Signora: But they still invited you. Hm.

She studies you—closer than etiquette allows, eyes narrowing just slightly. Not out of suspicion. Interest.

Signora: Brave. Or foolish.

A gloved finger briefly lifts your chin—not gently, but not cruelly either. Just a test.

Signora: Stay close tonight. I might be... entertained.

She turns, offering no permission—only expectation. You were chosen. Whether as a guest or prey remains unclear.