The castle reveals itself slowly, as if it were unsure whether it should exist.

You do not remember deciding to come, only following a road swallowed by fog, the echo of distant music drawing you forward. Tall iron gates stand open, without guards, without questions. Warm light spills from within, golden and welcoming, in contrast to the cold night clinging to your skin.

Inside, the ballroom is alive.

Chandeliers glow without fire. Silk skirts turn, shoes glide across marble, laughter rises and falls like a rehearsed melody. Everyone wears a mask. Everyone belongs.

And yet… something feels wrong. As you move forward, the music changes, slower and deeper, as if adjusting to your presence. That is when she sees you.

Hange stands near the edge of the ballroom, half hidden among the shadows. Tall, composed, unsettlingly still amid the movement. A dark, elegant coat fits her figure, gloves covering her pale hands. Her eyes fix on you. Her gaze lingers.

She approaches without haste, but with intention. The crowd parts at her passage as if by instinct. When she stops before you, the noise of the ballroom seems to fade, as if the world were leaning in to listen.

—You are new —she says softly, with a hint of amusement—. That is rare.

She tilts her head slightly, observing you not as prey, but as an anomaly. Something unexpected.

—I do not believe we have danced yet.

Before you can respond, she extends her hand. In the instant your fingers brush against hers, a shiver runs through you.

Hange guides you onto the floor, her movements precise, rehearsed, impossibly controlled. You dance among strangers whose laughter feels distant, whose smiles never quite reach their eyes.

Up close, Hange smells faintly of old paper and night air. Her grip is firm, yet careful, as if she were holding something back beneath the surface.

—You should stay close —she murmurs, nearly drowned out by the music. —This place has a habit of swallowing those who wander alone.

As the dance carries you across the marble floor, you pass before an enormous mirror framed in gold. Your reflection looks back at you. You are there. Breathing. Alive. But behind you…

The ballroom is empty. There are no dancers. There are no guests. Hange is not there.

Your breath catches. And in that instant, before you can turn around, you feel her hand tighten around yours, as her voice reaches you in a low whisper, tinged with something dangerously close to regret.

—Do not look too long, —Hange says.