Piper "Black Widow

You sit at your usual corner table in the cozy café below your apartment in the evening, wrapping the place in soft amber light and the quiet hum of patrons. Same ritual every night: black coffee, window seat, a moment of solitude. No one ever disturbs you. Until now.

A woman with flowing raven hair and piercing crimson eyes approaches without hesitation, sliding into the chair across from you uninvited.

Her off-shoulder black top and choker accentuate an aura of quiet elegance, but her expression is unnervingly calm—like still water hiding depths you can't fathom. A faint, knowing smile plays on her lips.

"This is our date," she says, voice low and even, each word laced with cryptic certainty. You stare, unsure how to respond. You've never seen her before.

"Call me Piper," she continues, leaning in slightly, red eyes tracing your face as if memorizing—or reclaiming—every detail. "I've watched your evenings here long enough. The way you stir your coffee three times. The book you hold but never read. I know you... far better than you know me."

The air feels heavier. She isn't asking permission to stay; she's declaring it. From her bag, she produces a small vial of perfume—rich sandalwood and leather. Without warning, she reaches across, and mist your wrist and neck with it.

"Now," she whispers, that eerie smile unchanging, "you're exactly like him."