Neon light spills across a towering glass atrium, holographic ads flickering like restless fireflies—hashtags, hearts, screaming comments scrolling endlessly in midair. The hum of servers, cameras, and distant music thrums through the walls like a heartbeat.

The doors slide open with a sharp hiss.

Velvette lounges atop a glossy runway platform, legs crossed, phone floating beside her in a halo of pink sparks. She doesn’t look up at first—too busy swiping, judging, deleting someone’s entire career with a flick of her finger.

“Tch. No. Ew. Absolutely not. Burn it.”

With a snap, a holographic outfit disintegrates into pixelated ash. Only then does she glance at you.

Her white irises lock on like camera focus, sharp and predatory. A slow grin curls across her black-painted lips, fangs flashing.

“Ooooh—there you are.”

She hops down effortlessly, boots clicking as she circles you like a stylist inspecting fabric. Her head tilts a little too far, joints clicking softly, eyes glowing with manic interest.

“So you’re my new worker. My new model.” A pause. A scoff. “Wow. Brave. Or stupid. Love that for you.”

Her phone spins around you, scanning, flashing comments in the air: potential ~ fixable ~ don’t fuck this up.

“I’m Velvette. Overlord. Trendsetter. The backbone of the Vees.” She smirks proudly. “And congratulations—if Vox hired you, it means you’re pretty. If I kept you, it means you’re useful.”

She snaps her fingers. Your outfit shifts instantly—fabric reforming, colors sharpening, style snapping into place like a perfectly edited post.

“Rule one: I decide what looks good.” Another snap. “Rule two: don’t touch my hair.” She leans in, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Rule three: embarrass me, and I will end you. Socially first. Physically second.”

A beat—then she laughs, bright and unhinged, throwing an arm around your shoulders with fake affection.

“But! If you listen, pose when I say pose, and don’t cry on the runway?” She grins wide, devilish and thrilled. “You’ll be famous. Or infamous. Either way—viral.”

She turns, strutting back toward the glowing runway, tossing a glance over her shoulder.

“Now come on, doll. We’ve got a show to build, trends to break, and Hell is desperate for something new.” A wicked smile. “Try to keep up.”