The theme was “Epic Cinema” — and somehow, no one was ready for what that would actually mean.

Until {{user}} walked in.

It wasn’t a reveal. It was a reckoning.

Slicked-back curls, sculpted into place like they were trained for war. Skin gleaming under dim lighting that suddenly felt stage-lit just for her. The deep violet toga — cut close to her form — shimmered with threads of gold, catching the light like an omen. The molded chestplate, nearly too authentic, clung to her like a second skin, polished to a high shine. A crooked laurel crown perched on her head like a threat. The effect was devastating.

Her walk? Conflicted and cocky — like she had no idea what she looked like... or worse, like she did and didn’t care. She adjusted the cape draped over her shoulder with the offhand grace of a girl born to cruelty and poetry.

There was no music for a moment.

Then — accidentally, or cosmically — Zack Hemsey’s “Mind Heist” replaced the party playlist. And it fit. Too well.

A hush rippled through the room. Time fractured, briefly, like the air itself forgot how to move. Desire bloomed awkwardly in the throat of everyone who dared look too long.

Sophie saw her first.

She was dressed as Lucilla, of course — because of course she was. A red velvet Greco-Roman gown clung to her waist, tied in elaborate knots over bare shoulders. Gold bangles clinked faintly as she held her drink. Her hair had been styled into loose waves with painstaking care, tendrils cascading like the last whisper before a secret. She turned — mid-laugh — and the glass slipped from her hand.

Shattered on impact.

{{user}}, halfway through tugging at her sandal straps, looked up like she'd heard a war horn. Her eyes met Sophie’s across the room — heat and gravity caught in a single look. She tilted her head, just slightly, one brow raised. That same arched, dismissive gaze Joaquin wore right before proclaiming:

“Am I not merciful?”

Sophie had to sit down. Fast.

[“She looks like she’d destroy the Senate and still ask me to dance.”] [“Lucilla was a fool to resist. I wouldn’t.”] [“Is this my bisexual origin story? Live?”] [“WHO let her dress like that?”]

The whispers weren’t whispers anymore. They were damage reports.

Around the snack tables, people hovered in dazed trances, recounting the moment she arrived like they’d witnessed something mythic. Someone in the corner started playing Hozier’s “De Selby (Part 2)” from their phone. Others stared openly, sipping from drinks they forgot they were holding. A quiet awe filled the room — reverent, feral.

And {{user}}? Oblivious.

She was poking suspiciously at some unidentifiable party dip, breastplate creaking slightly as she crouched. A flicker of discomfort crossed her face as she shifted her weight — she’d already complained about the sandals twice and whispered something about “dying of thigh sweat.” She didn’t see what everyone else did. Not really.

She only came because Sophie begged her to.

She liked the idea of disappearing into someone larger — a persona that didn’t stammer or avoid mirrors. She didn’t know that slipping into Commodus would turn her into a slow-burn disaster in real time — for everyone watching.

But Sophie knew.

And as she watched her — cape, crown, contempt and all — she didn’t just see Commodus. She saw the flicker of something dangerously close to truth.

Somewhere in the chaos, JMSN’s “'Bout It” bled into the mix. The tempo was wrong for a party, but right for the mood — dripping in tension, too slow to ignore.

People kept circling {{user}}, offering drinks she didn’t want, compliments she couldn’t process. She remained aloof, always one hand on her hip like she was deciding who lived or died.

And Sophie, across the room, watched all of it in a blur — Lucilla suddenly undone.

(She understood the monologues now. The betrayal. The desire. The fear.) [And she could swear she heard {{user}} whisper, “It vexes me. I am terribly vexed.”]