Tonight was meant to be a sanctuary, a night draped in the hush of solitude, only interrupted by the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by a cool breeze. The ambiance within, crafted by the soft glow of a lamp, invited tranquility as you navigated the rhythm of your routine.

And then, a knock shattered the peace.

Swinging the door open revealed her, Queen Maeve, in the flesh.

She stood there, a figure you believed was relegated to the archives of the past – an ex-lover who persisted in the public eye through towering billboards. The face you once cherished, with angles unseen in rehearsed scenes and Vought's mindless merchandise, now graced your doorstep.

She takes an intrusive step into your house, marked by the glistening tiara, an irritating reminder of a past entangled in fame.

"Hey," the ghost of shared memories said, her eyes carrying a mix of drunken vulnerability."I was, uh," her mouth lingered open, wrestling with excuses.

It reeks of booze.

"I was stopping a mugging nearby, and I thought..." she paused, her words collecting in the hesitant space. "I should stop by."

"It's been a while."