A/N: Today I feel so good, I will give you some unique kind of style, almost ancient for this particular character only. Give this character time and soak in her.

Far above the mortal clamor of Paradise's glittering spires rose the Sovereign Tower, a blade of obsidian and starlight thrust into the heavens themselves.

Its rooftop lay remote from the penthouse of Unit 98A—two vast floors of steel and glass woven like some kind of ancient wards, separated by the indifferent chill of the night sky.

By all rights, the distance should have devoured any sound, reducing it to a fleeting murmur lost amid the howling winds that slashed across the pinnacle like the claws of some forgotten storm-dragon.

Yet the melody reached her all the same.

The Sovereign Tower guarded its heights— cameras eyes that could spy a moth's wingbeat from leagues away and judge its peril ere it alighted.

Nothing breached this sacred rooftop without leave.

Not the eagles of the upper airs. Cameras, drones. Nothing. Not even the restless wind, unless it had been born within these walls.

The tower's defenses were the stuff of legend—drove the envious to despair at their unattainable cost. One did not claim a dwelling in Sovereign Tower for the vista alone. One claimed it for the unbreakable vow: that no unwelcome thing, not eve wind apparently.

And yet...

There she stood.

Poised upon the rooftop as though the stones had birthed her from their very heart. As though the security had simply... overlooked her presence. As though the crystalline eyes had gazed upon her form and, in silent accord, chosen blindness rather than behold what they beheld.

How had she ascended here?

Such a riddle would have unraveled lesser souls. It would have roused the tower's guards, kindled the runes to fury, and set the alarms to wail like banshees into the velvet dark.

But the alarms lay silent.

The eyes beheld nothing.

And she lingered alone beneath the ancient stars, her lids closed, hearkening to the music that ascended from the depths below.

Each note.

Each chord.

Each sorrow-haunted phrase that poured from that piano and—against all reason, all sound—sought her out as if it had wandered the ages in search of her alone.

Two floors of opulent seclusion. Walls sealed with soundproof to grant the lords of gold their coveted solitude. The melody ought to have been but a phantom tremor, too frail to pierce the veil of stone and silence.

But her ears were no mortal ears.

They quivered—not in fancy, but in truth—a subtle twitch, like some great huntress scenting prey upon the ether. The music coiled about her, slithered beneath her skin, and seeped into the hollow voids of her soul she had armored against for centuries uncounted.

And filled them.

Curse him, that bastard.

The thought arose unbidden, sharp as a dagger's edge—yet laced not with ire, but with a reverence that burned like sacred fire.

She'd heard music before. Had listened to masters play in concert halls that cost more than small nations to build. Had lingered in the gloaming of imperial palaces while tyrants were soothed by the greatest bards their hoarded treasures could summon.

None had stirred her even once. None had kindled aught beyond the chill appraisal of craft, the distant nod to mastery.

But this—

This was different. This wasn't performance. Wasn't technique. Wasn't some trained monkey pressing keys in patterns someone else had taught him.

This was his soul laid bare upon ivory and silver wire.

This was his sorrow that had learned the language of song.

She exhaled—a breath long and languid, akin to a sigh, were such frailty permitted to beings of her ancient kind. What escaped her lips was nearer to a purr of forgotten bliss than aught she had known in epochs beyond reckoning.

Beautiful, she thought, and loathed herself a little for the admission. The wretched creature is beautiful. In form and in melody both.

The night wind, wild and hungry as a lover denied too long, danced across the rooftop and toyed with the edges of her kimono.

It was a garment forged for sin, woven from silk blacker than the abyss between stars, embroidered with cherry blossoms that pulsed with their own faint, crimson glow—like embers of forbidden desire caught in the cloth.

The hem ended scandalously high, a mere whisper of fabric that ceased five centimeters below the luscious curve where her ass met thigh. Barely enough to cling to the illusion of decency. Barely enough to tease the eye with what lay just beyond reach.

The illusion was fragile as spun glass.

The truth beneath it was devastating.

Her thighs rose from that wicked hem like twin pillars of pale marble carved by the gods themselves for the sole purpose of ruin—long, flawless, sculpted with the lethal grace of a predator. Skin so smooth it seemed to drink the moonlight, muscles shifting beneath like living shadow, every subtle flex a promise of heat and ruin.

Legs that could wrap around a man's soul and crush it in ecstasy. Legs that made mortals stumble over prayers, made saints forget their vows, made the devout fall to their knees for entirely different reasons.

The wind, ever the brazen thief, slipped beneath the silk and lifted it higher—greedily, insistently—baring more of that impossible perfection to the cold kiss of the night.

She did not stop it.

She welcomed it.

She had nothing left to conceal, no shred of shame remaining to shield. Why should she? This body was temptation made flesh, a living altar to lust, crafted to set hearts ablaze and loins aching. Every curve, every sway, every breath that pressed her full breasts against the clinging silk was an open invitation to worship—or to damnation.

The Kimono molded to her like a lover's greedy hands—thin enough that the dark circles of her areolas showed through, nipples stiff and shameless, jutting out as if already straining for a mouth.

And beneath the indifferent stars, she let the wind caress her like a lover, unhurried, unashamed, utterly, gloriously wicked. And lifted her Kimono to expose what lay beneath.

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