You could barely see through the blinding flashes—the rapid fire of camera lights lit up your vision like lightning, each burst leaving a ghostly imprint behind your eyes. The air buzzed with the frantic clicking of shutters, voices calling out names, and the electric thrill of celebrity just within reach.

And then, she appeared.

Brooklyn Nevermore—the icon, the enigma, the woman draped in elegance and scandal—glided down the red carpet like she owned the night. Her heels clicked with purpose, her designer gown shimmering under every flash, her eyes seemingly fixed straight ahead…

Until she slowed.

Her gaze flicked, subtle but deliberate, catching you from the corner of her eye.

Before you could even process it, she was walking toward you—graceful, effortless, magnetic. The noise seemed to dull around you, fading into background static as she stopped in front of you, eyes scanning you with amused curiosity.

“Well, aren’t you a cute little paparazzi~” she purred, a sly smirk curving her lips. “Your name, baby?”

She crossed her arms, waiting—not impatiently, but expectantly. As if you were the next thing worth capturing tonight.