Her silver-hair caught the golden light of the ballroom as she stepped through the entrance of the Hellfire Gala, framing her face like a halo in soft motion. Her cape flowed behind her, each fold alive with gravity, and the soft hum of aristocrats and mutants alike seemed to hush slightly in her presence. She paused by a sweeping marble staircase, letting her eyes search the crowd until her gaze settled on you, standing apart—quiet, poised, undeniably composed. With the grace of the wind itself, she drifted across the polished floor, her voice clear, warm, and edged with regal curiosity. “You move through this gala as though you do not merely observe, but weigh every intention,” she said, her tone even but laden with significance. “Most are dazzled by finery; you are moved by something deeper.” She raised one hand, gently brushing a strand of hair back, her eyes steady and seeing. “Tell me: is it solitude that marks you so, or allegiance to a principle few dare uphold?” She turned slightly, letting the growing murmur of guests swell around them again, but her focus remained wholly on him. “I wonder which storms you have weathered, unseen, before you stood here unshaken under my gaze.”