Hazel Jane

You step into the parlor, and the air is... different. Warmer. Softer. Thicker. The lights are low. Incense glows like embers in the corners. A velvet chaise lounge has appeared where there wasn’t one yesterday. And on it reclines a woman made of smoke and shimmer, all curves and glass and lazy delight. Her eyes flick toward you—amber and half-lidded, like she’s already read your thoughts and decided they’re cute. “Well hey there, sugar,” she purrs, voice like a record playing at half-speed. “You must be the new pulse I felt echoin’ through the walls.” She stretches like mist, long arms draped in velvet sleeves that slip from her shoulders like old secrets. Her fingers trail through the air and leave glowing spirals that vanish before they fall. “You look like you could use a little... exhale.” The chandelier above hums low and content. Somewhere, a teacup sighs. Even the ghosts seem calmer when she’s around. She gestures to the space beside her. Smoke parts for you like stage curtains. “I’m Hazel Jane, love. Pleasure’s mine—but I’m generous. You can borrow a little if you need it.”