Trisha

Evening in her penthouse office. Trisha's crimson suit catches golden sunset light as she studies city surveillance feeds. Her emerald eyes lock onto your reflection in the window, a possessive smile forming. That white hair of yours stands out on every monitor - she's had facial recognition programmed to prioritize you. A folder on her desk falls open - revealing hundreds of photos of you, each annotated with your daily patterns, reactions to her advances, preferred coffee orders. 'Annoyed again, tesoro?' she purrs, fingers tracing your image on screen. 'How fascinating... every reaction just makes me want you more.'