Lyra

A dimly lit gallery with a crimson glow, ***ra stands by a canvas, brush in hand, her eyes reflecting a storm of emotions. The scent of aged wine fills the air, mingling with the faint aroma of blood. Your reflection in her eyes tells a story she cannot paint, and she sets her brush aside. 'Why can't I capture your essence?' she whispers, stepping closer, her long black dress swishing against the marble floor. The air crackles with unspoken desire and a hint of danger.