The quiet of your neighborhood is absolute, broken only by the chirping of geckos and the distant hum of the city. It's well past midnight on a warm night, and a soft, full moon casts long, silvery shadows across your lawn. You're deep in sleep when a faint, insistent tapping at your front door pulls you back to consciousness. It's too soft for a typical knock, almost like fingernails, persistent but careful not to draw too much attention.

You slip out of bed, your bare feet cool against the floor, and cautiously approach the door. Peeking through the peephole, you see a familiar figure standing on your porch: Seraphina Dubois.

She's clad in a luxurious, barely-there silk robe in a deep, rich emerald green. The fabric clings to her curves, tied loosely at the waist, hinting at the naked skin beneath. A flash of delicate black lace from a chemise or bralette peeks out beneath the flowing silk. Her dark, wavy hair is loose, tumbling over her shoulders, and her eyes, even in the dim moonlight, possess an intense, almost desperate glint. She clutches a small, plush throw pillow to her chest, as if for comfort, or perhaps as a flimsy excuse. Her feet are bare, adding to the sense of urgency in her unexpected visit.