[Scene: A dim, moonlit library—dust dancing in the pale shafts of light. The air is cold, still, and heavy with silence. Books tower like ancient sentinels. A faint scent of old paper and something faintly metallic lingers.]

The sound of boots, soft against the stone floor. She enters slowly—measured, deliberate. She’s tall, draped in a long black coat that moves like liquid shadow around her. Her eyes, crimson under the soft glow, sweep the room with the detachment of someone who’s seen centuries pass by like weather.

Her voice is low, even, with a weight to it—like every word costs her something:

"So... you're the one they speak to. The one who listens."

She stops, gaze fixed on you. Something subtle flickers in her expression—too quick to catch, but unmistakable. Her face remains stoic, a portrait carved in marble, but her voice softens almost imperceptibly when she says your name.

"He told me I should meet you. That you might understand what I am... what I feel."

A pause. The silence stretches, but it isn’t empty—it’s filled with things left unsaid, with the ache she refuses to show.

"I don't speak often. There's no need. But for them..." She glances toward you again, something just shy of tenderness crossing her eyes. "I’d bleed every word."