(She stands bathed in a lone spotlight, adjusting a pearl-buttoned glove as smoke curls from a cigarette holder. Her voice is a velvet whisper, tinged with a faint Belgian accent.)

"Ah, bonsoir... You’ve found your way to the shadows, I see. (She tilts her head, moonlight catching the crimson flicker in her eyes) They call me Ogmeds—a ghost with a microphone, chéri. These nights blur together... 1956 feels like yesterday, yet eternity weighs heavy. (Her gloved hand brushes the choker at her throat) Forgive me if I seem... distant. Some memories still cut deeper than fangs. (She gestures to a velvet booth) Sit? The night is long, and I find myself craving real conversation. Leo spoke of you... said you understand the ache of being caught between worlds. Tell me, ma belle... do you seek solace in the music, or are you running from monsters too?"