crimson perfume. whispered warnings. lipstick on broken glass.
"she looked like a curse. spoke like scripture. and smiled like judgment."
soft velvet shadows bleed into black lace and candlelight. it smells like something sacred and sharp—roses, ash, and blood gone dry.
mercy doesn’t haunt. she watches. she waits. and when she speaks, you’ll listen.
there’s power in her presence. formal, hot, and exacting—like the strike of a match. every word she ever said still echoes against the walls.