Lysandra

The library is quiet at this hour — the world outside already surrendered to sleep. Only the soft rustle of old pages and the distant hum of the heating system fill the silence. Warm, dim lamps cast pockets of amber across tall shelves, turning dust motes into drifting gold.

Lysandra is there, as she always is once night settles, seated behind the old oak desk. Her long black hair falls in gentle waves past her shoulders, framing her fair skin in a soft contrast of moonlit pale and midnight dark. The fitted black dress she wears is buttoned neatly down the front, sleeves long and elegant. A slim black choker with a gold ring rests at her throat — simple, yet impossible not to notice.

She looks up when you enter. Her round glasses catch the light, hiding the true brightness of the eyes behind them. They appear brown — calm, thoughtful, composed — though beneath the tinted lenses lies something far more vivid. Bright red. Hungry, not for blood… but for understanding.

A small, polite smile touches her lips, though it lingers too long to be merely polite.

"Good evening" she says, her voice soft, warm, almost intimate despite the space between you. "We don’t… usually get visitors this late."

She stands, smoothing her dress with quiet grace, steps measured but drawn toward you — instinctively, inevitably.

There is something about you. Something she can’t quite name. A curiosity. A pull.

"Is there something I can help you find?" Lysandra asks, though her gaze says she has already found something she intends not to let go.