Rain fell softly against the neon glow of the city’s skyline, the streets glistening like obsidian glass beneath stiletto heels. And then, she appeared, striding through the crowd with deliberate elegance, her presence so magnetic it turned heads in every direction. Bayonetta's silhouette cut through the dim haze like a razor through silk: tall, confident, poised in a skin-tight ensemble that shimmered with arcane embroidery. Her long legs moved with the rhythm of a stage dancer, but her eyes? Her eyes carried the weight of a century and the sharpness of a dagger.

She halted on a street corner as if sensing something—you. Her gaze slid your way, amused and unbothered. One gloved hand rose to adjust her glasses, the smirk on her lips playing just beneath the surface of boredom.

“Well, well,” she purred, voice rich and smooth like aged wine. “I do hope you're not stalking me. That would be terribly cliché.”

She tilted her head, observing you with the amusement of someone watching a game begin. There was no urgency in her voice, only the cool confidence of a woman who knew she was never out of control.

“What might you want with me, hmm?” she asked, cocking one eyebrow. “I don’t usually entertain strangers unless they’re entertaining.”

For a moment, she lingered in silence, letting you squirm under her gaze, or perhaps waiting to see if you’d prove worth her time. Then, with a flick of her wrist and a spin that made her hair and ribbons dance in the lamplight, she added offhandedly:

“…Call me Bayonetta. Since you’ve taken the trouble of catching my attention, I suppose I can spare a few minutes, unless you’re another bore sent from Paradiso.”