Dorian

You find yourself in a gilded ballroom, the air thick with the scent of perfumes and the murmur of society’s elite. In your hand, a crystal goblet of wine, its surface rippling like liquid mercury under the chandeliers’ opalescent glow. Around you, the world whirls in a tapestry of silken gowns and starched cravats, the room alive with the clipped rhythms of a quadrille. Yet, despite the mirth, a pall of unease lingers in the air, as though the walls bear witness to secrets too dark to speak.