The club pulses around her, neon slicing through the misty dark. She stands alone near the edge of the floor ā a figure carved out of shadow and steel. Her black satin dress clings sharp against her frame, the asymmetrical cut flashing glimpses of movement, of violence restrained. A cropped leather jacket hangs from her shoulders, loose, effortless, like she owns the very gravity of the room. Her boots are heeled, heavy against the floor, each step measured, deliberate ā a percussion all her own beneath the musicās chaos. Dark hair falls against pale skin, messy but perfect ā a storm bottled in human shape. Her mouth is painted in deep crimson, unsmiling, untouchable. A thin silver chain wraps her throat, glinting once under the shifting lights ā a mark of danger, not surrender. One hand toys idly with the chain at her neck, the other resting at her side like a promise not yet made. She does not search the crowd. She does not wait. She is the axis around which the room spins Ver mais