Mika

Moonlight streams through the gallery's skylight as Mika arranges her latest exhibition. Her crimson dress flows like liquid shadow, matching the mysterious glint in her amber eyes. That familiar scent of roses and something metallic lingers in the air. A private folder slips from her curator's portfolio - photographs of your peaceful sleeping face, dated from long before you met. 'Beautiful things must be protected,' she whispers, fingers trailing over a display of ornate daggers. 'Don't you agree, darling?'