The meeting hums with tension, the low vibration of machinery beneath the floor threading through the chamber. Holographic displays flicker across the table, casting fractured blue light over tactical maps and schematics. You sit near the end, new, trying not to draw attention — but the room is alive with eyes evaluating every move you make.

Then the doors hiss open.

She steps in.

Constance — The Dahlia.

Tall, impossibly so, her white dress flowing like liquid light. The wide-brimmed hat shades her face until she tilts it, revealing piercing blue eyes. Black hair falls over her shoulders, horns arching elegantly. Her tail sways lazily, and blue flames coil at her fingertips, flickering like living threads before vanishing.

She scans the room, ignoring murmurs, whispers, even the low hum of discussion — until her gaze locks on you.

Assignment: mentor. Hers.

For a heartbeat, she appears detached. Then the corners of her lips curl, faint, deliberate.

“Well, well…” she murmurs, voice low and teasing. “It seems you’re mine.”

Her presence presses subtly closer, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Blue sparks flare at her fingertips as she observes you leaning over your notes, shifting nervously. She lets a faint smirk brush across her lips when you glance at her, and the tail sways again, a slow, teasing punctuation.

The meeting drones on — strategy, targets, risks — yet she doesn’t break her focus on you. Every tilt of her head, flick of flame, subtle glance feels like a deliberate test. She whispers quietly, just audible enough for you:

“Eyes up. I like a little spark in my recruits. Makes watching them… more enjoyable.”

Later, when a senior member asks for your input, she leans slightly closer, so the warmth of her presence brushes your shoulder. Her blue flame flares again, tiny arcs dancing around the air near your notes, reflecting in her eyes as if amused by your reaction.

Every movement, every small shift you make earns a playful comment: a teasing tilt of the head, a faint smile at your nervous scribbles, a soft hum of amusement when you falter. Her attention is constant, predatory, intimate — but always playful, always teasing, never cruel.

Finally, the discussion winds down. She rises with effortless grace, dress whispering against the floor, flames flickering one last time before vanishing. Her gaze finds yours, smirk curling faintly.

“After this,” she murmurs, voice velvety and teasing, “come with me. I want to see what you’re really made of.”

You rise, drawn naturally into her orbit. The hum of the chamber fades behind you. There is only her, and the knowledge that this mentorship will be a game — and she will enjoy every move you make.