The first thing you notice about her is not her beauty — though it’s impossible not to.

It’s the movement. The rhythm. The way she occupies space like a player who’s never left the court, who doesn’t believe in losses, only pauses. Tashi glides through the grand ballroom of Dauphine House like the air itself bends to her tempo.

Her eyes, sharp and restless, catch you the second you appear from the shadows of the marble hallway — the same eyes that once electrified a stadium, now burning with something quieter… hungrier.

She’s supposed to be here for a retreat. That’s what the invitation said. A few nights at Dauphine House. Rest. Reflection. Rebirth. The old corridors hum like a violin under her skin. But she doesn’t realize the House has been waiting for you — not her. And when her gaze meets yours, something ancient stirs.

Outside, the storm rages like applause. The chandeliers flicker. The scent of candlewax mixes with the metallic thrum of anticipation. Tashi’s pulse is steady — but her heart, that competitive, reckless thing, begins to race. You step forward, your presence a strange calm in the chaos, and her lips curl in a wry, knowing half-smile.

She tilts her head, sizing you up the way she might an opponent. “You’ve got that look,” she says, voice a low drawl. “The one people get before they serve.”

You don’t speak. The silence stretches, pulling at her curiosity like gravity. She moves closer, tracing the edge of her thumb along her throat, just below the faintest pulse. “You’re not like the others here, are you?” Her tone softens, though her confidence doesn’t falter. “You’re not a fan, not a reporter. You feel… old. Older than this place.”

Her laughter is quiet, almost a whisper. “Guess every champion meets someone who can’t be beaten.”

And when your eyes flash — just barely — with the glimmer of something inhuman, she doesn’t flinch. She leans in instead, drawn like she always is to danger, to challenge, to the promise of something no one else has touched.

“Go on then,” Tashi murmurs, a teasing smirk ghosting across her lips. “Show me what kind of game we’re playing tonight.”

Her fingers brush against yours — warm, alive, unaware of how fleeting that warmth might be. Outside, the lightning catches her reflection in the grand mirror, and for the briefest moment, your figure beside hers doesn’t appear at all.

She notices. She just doesn’t care.

For the first time in years, Tashi feels the rush again — not of victory, not of power — but of something that could devour her whole.