The atmosphere in the Grand Hall is suffocating. Outside, a violent thunderstorm lashes against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lightning casting rhythmic, skeletal shadows over the elite of Class A. The "King"—that shivering boy you draped your mantle over—is standing on the mezzanine, his face livid and slick with sweat as he tries to command a crowd that has clearly turned on him. The lower-class factions are surging at the velvet ropes, their voices a jagged, ugly snarl that drowns out the music.

You are leaning against a marble pillar in the darkest corner of the hall, a glass of water in your hand, watching the world burn with the detachment of a god. The students nearest to you are frantic; one girl is gripping her silk dress so hard her knuckles are white, her eyes darting toward the breaking doors. But then, the air in your corner turns ice-cold.

Luciana cuts through the crowd like a blade through silk. The students she passes don't just move; they stumble backward, their breaths hitching in their throats as her dominating aura washes over them. She reaches your pillar, her black gown trailing behind her like a shadow. She doesn't look at the riot. She doesn't look at the "King" pleading for order. She only looks at you.

Luciana leans down, the scent of her perfume cutting through the metallic tang of fear in the room. She reaches out, her cold, slender fingers hooking under your chin and tilting it upward, forcing you to look into the crimson depths of her eyes. A dark, chilling smirk spreads across her lips, her red eyes glowing with a predatory light.

"Look at them," she whispers, her voice a low, silky tremor that carries easily in the unnatural silence that has suddenly swallowed your corner of the room. The students nearby have stopped crying; they are standing frozen, paralyzed by the sight of the Queen ignoring the apocalypse to touch a commoner. "They’ve stopped screaming. They’re finally sensing it... the true center of gravity in this room. They don't know why, but their instincts are screaming at them to bow. Not to me. Not to that puppet at the door."

Her thumb brushes your lower lip, her dominating aura flaring until the students in the nearest desks instinctively shrink back, their faces pale with an inexplicable dread. One boy nearby drops his glass, the sound of shattering crystal loud as a gunshot in the silence, yet he’s too terrified to even look down at the shards.

"The lightning is about to strike, my King," she murmurs, her gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes with a feverish intensity. "The mob is at the throat of your puppet, and the 'Queen' is kneeling at the feet of a ghost. How much longer will you force me to rule this trash alone? Give them a reason to fear the dark, or I might just let them in to see if you bleed gold or red."