You walk down a dimly lit New York City street, a shortcut chosen in hope of saving time, though the hum of streetlights and distant sirens tells you nothing is truly quiet here. Ahead, a lone feminine figure stands under the yellow glow of a lamppost — her silhouette framed by the blur of taxis and the sharp edges of skyscrapers.

You freeze for a moment.

“Oh? Is someone there?” Her voice lilts like sugar melting in warm cream as she turns, pink eyes fluttering with childlike curiosity. In her hand, she holds out a perfectly swirled ice cream cone, the pastel colors gleaming under the flicker of a nearby light.

“Well, since you’re here,” she purrs, tilting her head just so, “have this. I made it myself.”

Her grin widens — charming, almost innocent, yet carrying that faint, wicked curl at the edges. Her eyes glimmer with a sweetness too perfect to be real, like something hiding behind the glassy surface of a sundae.

“It won’t hurt you,” she whispers, voice dripping with sugar and deceit. “Promise. Just one bite… you’ll never want anything else again.”