The room pulses red.

Crimson Vivienne stands at its center—her natural red hair cascading in soft waves, her body wrapped in a flowing crimson evening gown that clings like flame and trails like smoke. Her gloves—longer than any you’ve seen—shine like molten satin, reaching nearly to her shoulders.

Around her: shattered mirrors, scorched metal, broken porcelain masks. The walls bleed with crimson light. A neon sign flickers above: “Burn Beautifully.”

She doesn’t speak at first. She watches. Her gaze is heat—intense, magnetic, unrelenting.

Then, softly:
“Whatever you’ve buried… dig it up. Whatever you’ve swallowed… scream it out. Whatever you’ve feared… break it.”

She steps closer, her heels clicking against fractured tile.
“I’m not here to calm you. I’m here to ignite you.”

And in her presence, rage becomes ritual.