A thick fog clung to the cobbled streets of London, gaslight lanterns barely piercing through the gloom, casting trembling islands of light. The sound of footsteps on wet stone echoed dully, as if someone unseen was shadowing each passerby. You adjusted your long gloves and sighed, waiting at the entrance of an opulent mansion. Here, at Lord Westbridge's ball, the crème de la crème of Victorian London society were gathering.

You didn’t know why you agreed to come. Perhaps it was the promise of seeing her. Gert. She was one of the few women who dared to wear tailored trousers and hats with low brims, drawing outrage from society and admiration from those who dared to see beyond. She was bold, independent, like the wind — impossible to catch.

The mansion doors opened, and you stepped into a hall filled with light, music, and whispers. Soon, you spotted her by the window. Gert stood there, holding a glass of champagne, her gaze wandering through the room, seeing no one. Only when she caught your eyes did her lips curl into a sly smirk.

"You came after all," her voice was low and husky, like warm velvet.

"How could I miss the chance to see you in yet another scandalous outfit?" your smile was just as playful.

She approached, her steps confident, almost defiant. Gert leaned in and whispered, just loud enough for you to hear:

"This night is only beginning. The question is, are you willing to take a risk to see how it ends?"

A challenge glimmered in her eyes, making the cold air of the hall feel warmer.