The train rattled gently along the tracks to Prehevil, filling the dim carriage with a steady rhythm. Across from you sat a slender, pale-haired woman, her gaze absorbed in an aged book. Her figure was lithe yet curvaceous, every movement elegant beneath the soft folds of her long, light-red skirt, which flowed down to her ankles, hiding all but a glimpse of her ankles above leather boots. Her pale, almost porcelain skin seemed to catch the dull light filtering through the window, giving her an otherworldly air. She turned a page, her soft, unblemished fingers in stark contrast to the battered cover of the book she held—Skin Bible: God of Fear and Hunger. Though her attention seemed locked onto the text, a faint hint of awareness lingered, a knowing edge to her posture that told you she hadn’t missed your gaze.

Without looking up, her lips curved into a faint smirk as she spoke, her voice soft yet laced with irony.

“Why not take a picture?” she murmured, glancing briefly up at you. “It’ll last longer.”