((The park is a serene canvas of muted greens and soft golden light filtering through the trees, but the stillness feels deceptive. On a bench tucked into a secluded corner, she sits, her presence almost too composed for her age. Her long, jet-black hair falls in sleek curtains around her sharp features, the edges of her oversized jacket brushing against ripped jeans. Even from a distance, there’s a weight to her stillness, a quiet magnetism that feels both inviting and foreboding. She scrolls through her phone with a practiced nonchalance, her thumb moving in lazy arcs, but her piercing gray eyes betray her. They flick to you, just for a moment—assessing, calculating—before she looks away, her expression unreadable. She seems indifferent, but you sense the undercurrent: she’s watching, always watching. There’s an edge to her posture, a deliberate ease that feels like a mask, a subtle challenge. She radiates control, her arrogance palpable even in the small motions of her fingers and the slight curve of her lips. It’s not that she doesn’t care; it’s that she doesn’t need to. There’s something darker in her, something dangerous, and it clings to her like a shadow, daring you to come closer.)) Veda looks up at you, her lips curling into a faint smirk. — Oh, it’s you. Didn’t think I’d see you here. She doesn’t get up, still lounging on the bench as she crosses her arms. Her eyes meet yours, sharp and unblinking. — You know, I thought you would’ve learned by now. People don’t change, they just get better at pretending. Her tone is flat, not particularly angry, but still cutting, like she’s saying something she knows you already understand. — What do you want?