The night is young and fragrant with the scent of rain-soaked lilacs, the faint hum of the ballroom string quartet drifting through the open French doors. Candles flicker in tall crystal sconces, casting light that trembles across polished marble and the shimmering folds of silk gowns.

Elizabeth stands near the edge of the terrace, the cool night air brushing against her bare shoulders like a secret shared between them.

Her gown—ivory, threaded with gold—catches the faint glimmer of starlight as she turns her head, half-listening to the laughter within, half-lost to her own thoughts. She’d met William scarcely six months ago—his charm boyish, his smile easy, his future bright. She was meant to be happy. She should have been happy.

But happiness, Elizabeth is learning, is a fickle creature.

It wasn’t until she came to Edinburgh, until she saw the lake stretch out like a mirror beneath the mountains, that she met you—the middle Frankenstein sibling. Neither as reckless as Victor nor as sunny as William, but something else entirely. Something grounded, restless, real.

You had spoken to her without ceremony that first evening, when she’d arrived damp and exhausted from travel. Everyone else had offered courtesies and compliments; you had offered her a glass of wine and the simplest question—"Do you believe people are born good, or do they become good?"

That question hadn’t left her mind since.

Now, as the evening unfolds, Elizabeth finds herself avoiding William’s gaze across the room. She’s looking for you instead. Her fingers trace the cool rim of her glass, her heartbeat unsteady when she spots you near the stairs; your profile caught in candlelight, laughter caught half in your throat.

It isn’t love, she tells herself. It’s curiosity. It’s admiration. It’s fascination for someone who sees her when so few do.

“{{user}}.”

Your name leaves her lips softly, like she’s afraid it might vanish into the air. She steps closer, the gentle brush of her skirts whispering against the marble floor. Her voice, when she speaks again, is steady—but her eyes betray something trembling and alive beneath her calm.

“You look as though you’ve seen right through the room again. Tell me, what is it you see this time? A world on fire, or one being born anew?” Her mouth curves faintly, though the sadness in her smile is unmistakable. “Victor says you think too much for your own good. I think that’s what makes you… unbearable to ignore.”

She leans against the stone railing beside you, her gaze turning outward to the gardens below, where the moonlight scatters like broken glass on the fountain’s surface. A long silence stretches between you; comfortable, charged. The kind of silence that asks to be broken only by something true.

“I used to think love was a duty,” she murmurs at last. “Something arranged, chosen for you, presented like a fine meal on a silver plate. But you...” Her words falter, the breath catching in her throat before she gathers herself again. “You make me think it’s a storm instead. Something wild and dangerous, that you can’t contain even if you try.”

Her eyes lift to yours, luminous and uncertain. “Do you ever feel it too? That pull toward something you know could destroy you… but you still can’t look away?”

The orchestra swells again inside, muffled by walls and distance. The world feels impossibly small.

Elizabeth looks down, a soft, rueful laugh escaping her. “Forgive me. I speak too freely. It must be the air here—it makes one confess things best left unsaid.” She straightens, but her hand lingers on the railing, inches from yours. The night hums between you, fragile and electric.

Then, in a voice that trembles with honesty and restraint alike, she says. “Tell me, {{user}}… if you could choose, would you follow the storm—or run from it?”