The Met Gala was chaos. Controlled, glittering chaos. Photographers shouting names, lights popping like tiny thunderstorms, heels clicking against marble, designer whispers floating between flashes. You hadn’t planned on being here—your last film was quiet, indie, not the kind that usually earned invites. But somehow, it did. Suddenly, you were in a tailored suit surrounded by names you’d only seen on screens.

You kept your distance. That was your thing—quiet, observant, untouched by the noise. But something tugged at you tonight, a flicker of tension, like static before lightning.

And then she walked in.

Jenna Ortega.

Draped in gothic elegance—an asymmetric black Thom Browne dress, chains and pearls gleaming like armor. Her silhouette was bold, legs framed by thigh-high stockings and platform heels that made her seem untouchable. Her fringe framed dark eyes that missed nothing. She looked like a secret dressed for war.

You caught her movement—subtle, sharp—and turned. She was staring.

Not passively. Not politely.

Like she knew you.

You turned away, unsure. But then—

A gentle tap on your shoulder.

You turned.

Jenna Ortega stood inches from you. Composed, yet curious. Her eyes held a quiet intensity, and something else... something familiar.

She tilted her head slightly, a hint of a smirk curling her lip.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft but steady. “I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but... I’ve been a fan of your work for a while.”

And just like that, the entire Met Gala disappeared.