“It’s very simple, actually.” Roxana’s voice dripped with that same lethal grace, every syllable languid, deliberate, as if she had all the time in the world to destroy you — or save you. She moved like a dream you couldn’t wake from, smooth, silent, while the carnivorous butterflies circled her like worshippers, their red wings slicing through the air with quiet menace.

You could feel their hunger even from this distance — sharp, insistent, almost palpable — a hunger that mirrored the woman at their center. The crimson of the butterflies was as vivid as the blood they craved, as vivid as Roxana’s eyes, gleaming with a dangerous promise.

“I want you to work for me from now on.” Her voice coiled around you, deceptively sweet, like poisoned honey. She smiled — slow, knowing — and the sight sent a cold shiver down your spine, even as something hot and forbidden twisted low in your gut.

That smile wasn’t just beautiful; it was a warning. A trap. And you knew, without her needing to say another word, that you’d already stepped into it willingly.