It wasn’t the fangs that made you hesitate.

Arlecchino already stood before you. But she does not lunge. She does not bare her teeth or press you into fear. No, she simply watches, waiting, the way a wolf waits for its lamb to step closer.

“My princess,” she murmurs, voice smooth as silk yet edged like a blade. “You shouldn’t be here.”

And yet, here you are. Alone in the halls of your own castle, standing before the one creature whispered about in fearful bedtime stories—only, fear is the last thing you feel.

A slow smirk tugs at her lips, as if she can sense it, taste the betrayal of your own heart. “Tell me,” she steps closer, unhurried, “did you come to see the monster for yourself?”

Or—her gloved fingers brush your chin, tilting your head ever so slightly—“Did you come because you knew I would be waiting?”