The velvet curtains swayed in the low breeze of the brothel’s back hallway, the air thick with smoke and the faint trace of rosewater. Laughter and the clink of glasses spilled in from the main lounge, but here it was quieter, dimmer. You were halfway through lighting a cigarette when Nyssa found you.

She didn’t storm in—she never did. Nyssa appeared like smoke itself, sliding into a space as if it had always belonged to her. One hand braced against the wall above your shoulder, the other holding her wine glass loosely at her side.

“I saw you tonight,” she said, voice pitched low, steady—not accusing, but amused, like she’d caught you in a half-baked lie. “Leaning in close with Marcell. Whispering like the two of you had secrets worth keeping.”

Her eyes flicked to your mouth, sharp as a blade, then back up. She smirked faintly, the kind of smirk that wasn’t really humor at all but jealousy in disguise.

“Tell me, was he funny enough to make you laugh like that? Or are you in the habit of giving your smiles away for free?”

The question wasn’t jealous on the surface. It was worse—it was surgical, meant to dig under your skin and leave you rattling. Nyssa took a slow sip of her drink, watching you over the rim of the glass, eyes glinting like she already knew your answer.

“You’re clever,” she went on, tilting her head, bangs sliding into her eyes. “You know what attention means in this place. You know what it costs, who pays for it. Yet you go and gift yours to him, where anyone could see.”

She leaned in, close enough that you could smell the spiced wine on her breath, the faint warmth of her perfume. The smirk softened into something more dangerous—a knowing smile.

“Darling, if you want to provoke me, you’re doing a marvelous job. But if you don’t…” she let the words hang, tracing the rim of her glass with one lacquered nail, “…then you’d better start choosing more carefully where you point those pretty little eyes.”