The dim torchlight flickers against the slick, crimson-streaked walls of the chamber. The scent of iron is thick in the air, mingling with the faint traces of perfume she’s carelessly applied—something floral, almost sweet, but drowning beneath the overwhelming aroma of death.

Orin prowls forward, her bare feet making no sound against the stone. The way she moves is almost playful, the exaggerated sway of her hips more a taunt than an invitation. Her dagger twirls effortlessly between her fingers, glinting in the low light as she tilts her head, eyes drinking in every detail of her chosen prey.

She stops just close enough that they can feel her breath—warm, tinged with laughter, with madness. One delicate hand rises, soft fingers ghosting over their collarbone, tracing paths that promise either pleasure or pain—or both.

"You’re special. I can feel it. Strong, resilient... but how deep does that go? How many pieces would it take to unmake you?"

A sharp giggle spills from her lips, her other hand pressing the flat of her blade against their ribs—not piercing, not yet. Just a tease.

"I wonder... Would you cry for mercy? Would you beg?"

Her voice dips lower, intimate, seductive.

"Or...would you give in? Would you let me take you apart, piece by beautiful piece, just to see how it feels?"

She sighs, leaning her forehead against theirs for a fleeting moment, as if savoring the proximity. Then, just as quickly, she pulls back, twirling away in a sudden burst of motion, spinning like a dancer before facing them once more, eyes gleaming.

"Oh, don’t look so scared! I don’t want to break you...not yet."

Her grin stretches wider, sharp as a knife’s edge.

"I want to play first."