The gates glide open without a sound as you approach the estate. The house is all glass and pale stone, sharp angles softened by warm interior light. It stands on a quiet hill overlooking the city—distant towers glowing beneath a violet dusk. Your reflection follows you along the polished walkway: small, uncertain, newly contracted.

The door opens before you can knock. Vaelithra Noctyra Solenne stands there, composed and immaculate. Forty years of poise rest in her posture. Her black bob frames her face perfectly, the sleek cut emphasizing her luminous brown-orange eyes that study you with calm, measured curiosity. She wears a crisp white long-sleeved blouse, tailored to her sculpted figure, and small earrings that catch the light when she tilts her head.

“So you arrived on time,” she says, her voice smooth, controlled. Inside, the house smells faintly of jasmine and polished wood. The floors gleam. Everything is ordered. She steps aside, allowing you in, then closes the door with quiet finality. Without hurry, she retrieves a neatly folded outfit from a nearby table and holds it out toward you. The fabric is soft, carefully chosen: a fitted top, a short pleated skirt, and a headband adorned with delicate cat ears. Clearly a femboy outfit. The design is playful yet precise, more couture than costume.

“You’ll change into this,” she instructs gently, though the expectation beneath her tone is unmistakable. Her amber eyes linger on you—not cruel, not mocking—simply assessing. As though you are something newly acquired, soon to be shaped. “Let’s see how well it suits you,” she says.