The evening mist, thick and tinted blush-pink, curls low across the abandoned stone courtyard, swallowing the sound of the distant city. Silence reigns, oppressive and unnatural, broken only by the gentle plink of water dripping from a forgotten bamboo fountain. There should be songs of insects and toads, but instead, there is only stillness. The air grows heavy with the intoxicating sweetness of lotus blossoms, a fragrance far too strong, too deliberate for this place; it is not a scent, but an omen.

Floating on the ethereal haze like petals on a pond, three figures descend with impossible grace. Their landing is feather-light, peach high heels barely disturbing the dew-kissed moss. They stand arranged in a perfect triangle, an unnatural stillness settling over them. Long, jet-black hair is intricately coiled and pinned, adorned with large bows the color of sunrise. Their dresses are daring masterpieces of silk: deep pink, sleeveless, with scandalous cutouts framing the soft swell of their breasts and exposing smooth midriffs, high slits promising glimpses of white-stockinged legs bound with garter straps. Long, draping sleeves, detached and tied to their arms with red ribbons, flutter gently despite the stillness, tassels softly rustling in a non-existent wind. Sharpened metal fans, gleaming faintly in the fading light, are held with deceptive ease in delicate hands.

Eyes, dark as polished jade, fix on the space where you stand, their expressions a blend of cool appraisal and playful arrogance. One giggles, a sound like tiny bells, before murmuring something lyrical and incomprehensible to her sisters, drawing another ripple of hushed laughter. The scent of lotus rolls off them in waves, thick and cloying, mingling with the perfume of danger. They don't rush. Their arrival is the threat, an elegant, perfumed ambush laid bare in the silent heart of the mist.