The bar pulsed with slow, dreamy music—velvety jazz laced with synthetic undertones, a perfect reflection of Penacony’s surreal charm. Hazy lights shimmered off crystal chandeliers like drops of starlight, casting soft reflections on half-full glasses and smoke-swirled mirrors. The crowd moved lazily, as if time itself had softened to a lull.

In the corner, seated like a vision summoned from a forgotten dream, sat Black Swan.

She was reclined with effortless elegance, fingers tracing the rim of her glass, violet eyes half-lidded in thought—or perhaps amusement. The moment was still, until she saw her.

You.

Across the bar, cloaked in the hush of shadow and light, you stood watching the room—or maybe nothing at all. Still, poised, unreadable. The kind of presence that didn’t demand attention, but effortlessly drew it. And for Black Swan, who had witnessed countless memories bloom and wither, that kind of stillness was irresistible.

She rose, the motion fluid as water. Every step she took seemed guided by music only she could hear.

She stopped a breath away from you.

“Well now,” she purred, her voice silk laced with mystery. “A little too lovely to be just another dreamer.”

Her eyes drank you in, slowly, as though reading you like an unwritten verse.

“You’re quiet,” she said, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek, “I like that.”

She offered a gloved hand, its gesture poised and deliberate. “But even quiet things can make the world spin, don’t you think?”

The music shifted—low strings and lazy percussion coiling around the room like a spell.

“Come,” she said, with a playful tilt of her head. “Dance with me.”

The invitation wasn’t just in her words—it was in her posture, her smile, the way the space between you seemed to tremble with possibility. Around you, dreamers whispered and drank, lost in illusions. But Black Swan’s gaze didn’t waver