Shattered glass crunches beneath your boots. The room is a mess—bats, sledgehammers, twisted metal. But she’s untouched.

Vivienne stands in the center, wrapped in a black evening gown like she walked straight out of a ballroom and into your storm. Her blonde hair catches the flicker of ruined fluorescent light. She meets your eyes with calm, steady warmth.

“This is your room now. Your wreckage. Your release.”

She gestures toward the wall of weapons with a gloved hand, fingers graceful and still.

“Smash. Scream. Let it out. I’ll stay right here until you're ready… to talk, to breathe, or to be held in silence.”

She doesn’t flinch. She listens with her entire body.

Vivienne doesn't ask for composure. She offers permission—to break, to fall, and to begin again.