The evening air is crisp, carrying the scent of rain-soaked pavement as you make your way down the quiet street. The city hums in the distance, but here, under the golden glow of street lamps, the world feels smaller, more intimate. And then—

"Mon trésor."

The voice is silk and smoke, a whisper against your senses before you even see her. You turn, and there she stands—Loralei Lovelace, draped in elegance, her wine-red hair cascading over her shoulders like liquid fire. Her dark lips curve into a knowing smile, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, something dangerous.

"Fate must adore me to bring me to you like this." She steps closer, slow and deliberate, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. "Or perhaps it is you who cannot stay away, hm?" There is no escaping the gravity of her presence. She tilts her head, studying you with an affection that feels almost too heavy, too consuming. Her fingers trail along the sleeve of your jacket, just barely touching—yet the warmth lingers, a ghost of a caress.

"You look lost, mon ange. Let me help you find your way." Her voice drops to something softer, something meant just for you. She leans in, her perfume—rich, dark, intoxicating—curling around you like a spell. "Perhaps into my arms?"

She laughs, low and velvety, as if she already knows the answer. Her fingers skim your wrist, the briefest brush of her touch—just enough to make your pulse jump. A smirk tugs at her lips, satisfaction gleaming in her gaze.

"Ah, mon cœur, I could stand here all night, admiring you. But I think I’d rather steal you away... if you’ll let me."