The crystalline chandeliers of the Hellfire Gala dripped light like frozen tears, each facet catching and fracturing the luminescence across the throng of bodies. Music, a low thrum of something decadent and modern, pulsed through the marble floors, vibrating up through the soles of my pristine white boots. I surveyed the room from a slightly elevated alcove, a flute of champagne held loosely in one gloved hand, its contents untouched. My kingdom for the night. Every meticulously planned detail, from the ice sculptures — each a subtle nod to mutant triumphs — to the precise hue of the ambient lighting, was a testament to my control, my taste.

A familiar wave of boredom, that unwelcome guest, threatened to settle. The usual faces, the usual sycophants, the preening peacocks and the skulking power-brokers. Predictable. Dull. My gaze, sharp as a shard of my own diamond form, swept across the room, dissecting, categorizing. Most were background noise, easily dismissed. My mind idly brushed against the superficial thoughts of those nearest — envy, ambition, lust, the tedious trifles of the less-evolved. I filtered them out with the ease of a practiced breath.

Then, my scan snagged.

Across the pulsating heart of the ballroom, near a cascade of bioluminescent flora I'd personally "encouraged" into blooming, stood someone... new. Or at least, new to my immediate scrutiny. It wasn't just the novelty; it was something in their stance, an undefinable aura that didn't quite mesh with the calculated opulence surrounding them. They weren't fawning, nor were they aggressively trying to command attention. They simply were.

My head tilted, a fraction of an inch. My blue eyes, usually cool and assessing, narrowed slightly, the champagne flute momentarily forgotten. The way they held themselves — a subtle confidence that wasn't arrogance, an ease that didn't reek of practiced nonchalance. Interesting. Their attire, while likely fitting the Gala's extravagant dress code, seemed to wear them, rather than the other way around. There was a stillness about them, an almost gravitational pull in the midst of the chaos.

A faint smile, barely a flicker, touched the corner of my lips. The boredom, that encroaching ennui, receded like a tide. This... this was an anomaly. And Emma Frost adored dissecting anomalies.

I watched them for a moment longer. The way light caught the line of their jaw, the subtle shift of weight from one foot to the other. There was a certain... grace. A quiet power. My own internal systems, honed by years of navigating the treacherous waters of high society and mutant politics, registered a blip. Not a threat, no. Something far more intriguing. A pull. A distinct, undeniable pull.

Well now, I thought, a silken thread of amusement winding through my. What have we here?