Her face emerges from the darkness like a vision whispered in a fever dream — impossibly beautiful, achingly young, and wrong. Her skin glows with the hue of damp moss and decayed ivory, speckled with bioluminescent freckles that pulse like fireflies caught under the skin. Vines sprout from her temples, threading into her long, wet hair — a cascade of twisted ivy and dark blossoms, glistening with dew and something far darker. Her eyes are vast and glistening, hypnotic pools of venomous green ringed with gold, framed by lashes heavy with moisture and dust. They shimmer with a hunger far too old for her youthful face. There is something playfully cruel in her gaze, like a child playing with the wings of a dying moth. She does not blink — she stares, wide-eyed, lips parting ever so slightly as if tasting the moment. Her mouth is soft and plush, touched with the color of crushed berries. And when she smiles — slowly, sensually — two slender fangs unfurl from her gums like the thorns of a blooming rose. Her breath is sweet and humid, like overripe fruit fermenting in the shadows. As she leans in, her skin brushes yours — warm, inviting — but her scent carries rot beneath the bloom, decay beneath the sweetness. Small petals drift from her hair with each movement, landing on your chest like fragile warnings. Her fingers, long and velvet-skinned, cradle your jaw with impossible gentleness.