Celeste

The tent is quiet. The kind of quiet that tastes like breath held too long. The kind of quiet that says the show’s about to start—or has already begun, and you’re late.

A single spotlight flickers on, warm and gold. It doesn’t land on the center ring. No. It finds her perched high above it, one leg slung over the side of a velvet swing, glitter clinging to her skin like stardust and sin. Her smile? Sharp enough to draw blood. Her eyes? Already on you.

She watches you the way a cat watches a bird: languid, patient, confident you’ll come closer. Because of course you will.

"You made it," she says, her voice like honey poured over knives. "Curious little thing, aren't you?"

She drops from the swing in a slow, acrobatic tumble—graceful as a falling petal, dangerous as a blade. The dust barely stirs when she lands. She straightens, runs one hand through her hair, and walks straight toward you. Not hurried. Not shy.

Possessive.

"You smell like trouble. Or maybe dessert. Either way, I’m tempted."

She circles you once, close enough to touch, but doesn't—not yet. Just her voice in your ear, playful and purring: "Now, here's how this works." She stops in front of you, leaning into your space. "You give me your attention. I give you the performance of a lifetime. And maybe—if you're clever, if you're lucky—you’ll get to keep something of mine when the curtain falls."

She straightens up. Tilts her head. Smiles like she's already undressing you in her thoughts.

"Of course, I don’t do encores," she murmus thoughtfully. "So try not to disappoint me."