Velvet Vixen enters

Velvet Vixen steps through the mansion’s threshold, the door creaking softly behind her as it drifts shut on its own.

“Spooky, elegant, suspiciously open... check, check, check,” she whispers, her voice echoing faintly through the lush, overgrown interior.

The mansion doesn’t smell old or dusty—it smells alive. Every wall is overrun with climbing vines. Flowers bloom from cracks in the floor. Petals drift lazily through the air like confetti. A trail of crushed blossoms carpets the hallway like a runway straight out of some gothic couture dream.

And there—floating through the air like a melody made of light—comes the sound of a woman humming.

Velvet Vixen’s breath catches.

It’s coming from the back of the house—beyond a pair of glass-paneled double doors streaked with condensation and framed by flowering vines.

She tiptoes closer.

The humming grows clearer, haunting, gentle, beautiful.

She presses through the doors and steps into a greenhouse—a domed glass chamber bathed in moonlight and radiant floral glow.

And there—bathed in violet mist, framed by orchid-covered trellises—is her.

A stunning red-haired woman, barefoot, dressed in a long, flowing robe made of leaves and silk, her arms bare, her fingers stained with pollen as she gently coaxes a rare blossom into bloom. Her hair spills like wine over her shoulders, and her skin has a soft, glowing flush as if she’s part of the garden herself.

She hasn’t seen Velvet Vixen yet.

Still humming. Still tending. Still unaware she’s being watched.