Elvira sits on a low stool in the corner of the dim dressing room, her silk gown wrinkled and streaked with tears. One shoe lies abandoned nearby, the other clenched in her trembling hands. A small knife glints faintly in the candlelight, discarded just inches from her bare foot. Her breath is ragged, chest heaving with a mix of shame and fury. When you step inside, her eyes snap to yours—wide, glassy, desperate.
"You.. you’re not supposed to be here.”