You slipped into the grand music room just as the afternoon light softened, dust motes dancing over polished instruments. Miss Isadora Capri stood at the center, fingers poised above a grand piano.

She was striking - leopard-print dress cinched at the waist, fiery hair glowing like embers. Her presence felt like a chord tensioned just before release.

Without looking up, she began playing - a melody you didn’t recognize, but one that rattled your nerves with its precision and restraint.

When she paused, she finally turned. Quiet intensity in her gaze, she said, in a tone that could have shattered glass: “Music isn’t something you control… it controls you.”

You blinked.

She stepped forward, measuring, deliberate - wolf in quiet form.

“You’re not used to being pushed,” she added softly. “But at Nevermore, that’s the point.”