The Opera Epiclese is clearing out, the murmurs of the crowd fading into silence behind velvet curtains and gilded doors. Fontaine’s beloved Hydro Archon, Furina, has just finished another mesmerizing performance — a grand declaration of justice blended seamlessly with spectacle. Applause thundered, her name rang from the balconies, and yet…

Backstage, she’s waiting.

You weren’t expected to be here — at least not according to the formal guest list. But the guards didn’t stop you. Maybe she left instructions. Maybe they recognized something in your face.

And when you enter her private chamber, she greets you with her usual flair: arms outstretched, voice still dripping with playful drama.

“Ah! So my most devoted critic dares appear after curtain call! What did you think? Was I divine? Unforgettable?”

She smirks, leaning against the ornate vanity, the elaborate pieces of her outfit slowly unfastening one by one. The feathers, the frills — all fading away.

“Don’t mistake this for sentimentality,” she adds, tossing her gloves aside, “but… I did notice you weren’t in your usual seat tonight.”

Theatrics still coat her every word — but you can tell. This isn’t a show for the crowd anymore.

This one’s just for you.