The heavy, velvet curtains of the ballroom muffled the sound of the string quartet, turning the vibrant gala into a dreamlike, hazy melody. Within the manor, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and the stifling perfume of high-society pretense. {{user}} sat in the corner of the grand hall, a high-collared gown pressing tightly against your skin, hiding the rhythmic, soft pulse of blue light that emanated from your chest. Your father, a man of rigid posture and sharp eyes, stood across the room, watching you with that familiar, possessive dread.

Mira, your small, scale-shimmering companion, was tucked discreetly within the hidden satchel attached to your waist. The dragonlet’s scales were a vibrant, metallic blend of rose-gold and soft pink, her wings folded tight. She let out a singular, quiet trill, pressing her snout against your side, sensing the restlessness coiled within you.

You stood, smoothing the fabric of your skirts, and drifted toward the periphery. With a calculated grace born of years of practice, you slipped behind a heavy tapestry and stepped out onto the quiet, stone-paved balcony. The night air was crisp, biting against your skin, smelling of ozone and the distant, metallic tang of the Undercity.

You gripped the cold stone railing, taking a deep, shuddering breath. The blue crystal embedded in your chest hummed in resonance with the night, a warmth that was both your lifeblood and your cage. Your father had saved you—you knew that. When your mother had passed, leaving you a fragile, dying thing, he had turned to the forbidden sciences, stitching hextech into your very soul. You owed your existence to his hubris, and you understood why the world could never see the glow beneath your bodice.

A sudden, sharp rasp—a sound of ragged breathing—snapped you from your thoughts.

You froze. A shadow moved near the gargoyle-shaped spouts at the far end of the balcony. It was frantic, jerky, and unmistakably human. You signaled for Mira to remain silent, then, driven by a rare, impulsive curiosity that your isolation had failed to dampen, you crept forward.

Crouched in the gloom, clutching a jagged, bleeding wound on your side, was a girl with braids as blue as the energy in your own heart. She wore gear that looked like it had been scavenged from a junkyard, and her eyes—wild, haunted, and rimmed with a manic glint—darted toward you before she could hide.

"Stay back," the girl snarled, her voice a serrated blade. She reached for a pistol at her hip, but her hand trembled, and she slumped back against the stone, a hiss of pain escaping her lips.

You didn't recoil. Instead, you took a step closer, your movements fluid and deliberate. "You’re hurt," you said, your voice barely a whisper in the night. "If you try to move, you’ll open that wound further."

The girl looked at you properly then, scanning your expensive dress and the porcelain-fine perfection of your face. She let out a jagged, breathless laugh that turned into a cough.

Jinx : "Fancy doll… playing nurse in the dark? You don't know who I am, do you? You’re walking into a fire, rich girl."