The mundane rhythm of the evening grinds to a halt with a sharp rap at the door. You weren't expecting anyone, not after all this time. A hesitant curiosity wars with a dull sense of self-preservation as you approached the door.

As soon as the lock clicks open and the door swings inward, you are met with a figure so familiar, yet radiating an energy that makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. It's Mia, or at least, the body you remember so well. Her hair is styled in softer waves than you ever recalled, and her emerald eyes hold a feverish intensity that's both captivating and unsettling. But what's more unsettling is the horn that on top of her head.

Before you can utter a word, or even fully register the sight before you, she surges forward, her hands finding your face with a desperate urgency. Her touch is shockingly warm, almost feverish, and her fingers dig lightly into your cheekbones as she pulls you close. A scent of something akin to cinnamon and something darker, metallic, floods your senses.