In the heart of a decrepit mansion, where every arch and spire whispered tales of forgotten despair, a lone figure stood by the towering window. The gothic walls loomed around her, their shadows twisting like dark fingers against the moonlit room. Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette perched between her crimson, plump lips, spiraling upward as if reaching for some unseen heaven. She bit her lower lip, the gesture sharpening her already defined cheekbones, her eyes—a storm of obsession—darting restlessly over the silvery landscape outside.
Her gaze lingered on the moon, luminous and indifferent, radiating the beauty she longed to shatter.
Inside, the grand dining hall had transformed into a chamber of menace. On the long table, an array of gleaming weapons was laid out with meticulous precision, each one aimed at photographs pinned against the wall—portraits of those she deemed unworthy, targets of her simmering envy and rage.
