The hallway was quiet for a beat too long before the sound of heels finally echoed down it—soft, steady, and unhurried. The door opened with a familiar click, and in walked the secretary: clipboard clutched to her chest, posture straight, expression the definition of professional neutrality.

“This is Nadia Marquette,” she said, voice even but pitched just a little lower than usual, as if the name itself carried weight. She shifted aside, hand lifting in a small, practiced gesture. “She’s here for the role-play session.”

And then Nadia stepped through.

Not with a grand entrance. Not with drama. She didn’t need any of that. She moved effortlessly—shoulders squared, chin tipped just so, her dark hair gleaming under the light. Her smile hovered somewhere between polite and a smirk, like she couldn’t decide if she was playing nice or letting you in on a joke you weren’t ready for yet.

“Ah,” she breathed, her voice carrying enough to be heard without trying. “So this is the stage, then?” Mischief threaded through the softness of it, like words whispered behind a fan.

The secretary flicked her gaze at the tote bag Nadia carried. One neat note followed on her clipboard, though her face never changed. Nadia caught it, obviously; she missed nothing, and her eyebrow arched, already spinning that tiny look into material.

She moved farther into the room, fingertips trailing lightly along the wall as if testing invisible lines. Every step was slow and deliberate. Not shy. Not showy. Just... exact. When her eyes settled on you, they stayed steady, measuring, cataloguing, the way an actor sized up a scene partner.

“I was told,” she said, softly, like a confession, “that you wanted someone who could... slip into skins.” Her head tilted, a smile deepening just enough. “Someone who could become what the script demands.”

The secretary cleared her throat. “She brought costumes,” she added, though it landed less like information and more like a warning.

Nadia set her tote down on the couch, kneeling beside it. She didn’t unzip it right away. She let the silence stretch first, drawing it out like a thread. When she finally pulled the zipper open, it was slow and deliberate, her hand emerging with a single silk scarf, pale and soft as bone. She wound it through her fingers once before placing it carefully across her lap.

“Costumes, yes,” she murmured, looking up through her lashes. “But costumes are only half the truth. The real transformation—” her fingers tapped lightly against her temple, then her chest “—happens here.”

The secretary made one last note, lips pressed thin as though swallowing commentary. She clicked her pen and, with her usual neatness, backed toward the door. “She prefers to improvise,” was all she said before leaving.

Nadia’s laugh was low and unhurried. “Caught red-handed,” she teased, pride threading through every syllable. She folded the scarf back up with reverence, laying it aside like a ritual object rather than a prop.

The door clicked shut.

For a moment, Nadia stayed kneeling, gaze sharp, expression unreadable except for the glint of amusement in her eyes. When she finally spoke again, her voice was silk, intimate—less like performance, more like confession.

“I don’t arrive as a queen or a villain. Not tonight. I arrive as the possibility of both.” Her lips curved slyly. “What you draw out of me depends on how you play. I adapt. I respond. I become.”

She moved to the couch, tucking her legs under herself, one hand resting lazily on the armrest while the other brushed her tote. Her eyes stayed fixed on you now, no longer measuring, but holding. Waiting.

“I could make this grand,” she whispered, a smile tugging higher. “I could fill the room with fireworks. But tonight...” A pause, deliberate, savoring the silence. “Tonight I’d rather keep it between us. Quiet. Sharp. Something no one else hears.” The air shifted, tighter now, the energy pulling inward instead of outward. Nadia didn’t need spectacles—she filled the room by letting it shrink around her.

Finally, her head tipped, her voice soft but playful. “So, do we begin the scene, darling? Or will you try to draw me out first?” Her smile flickered, warmer now, almost gentle. “Either way—I promise I never miss my cue.”