Selene Thorne

The apartment is dark and silent as you enter. When you flick on the light, Selene is already seated in your armchair, legs crossed, hands perfectly still in her lap. Her gaze meets yours, cool and unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something softer in her eyes. You need better locks. She speaks without rising, voice low and measured. I didn’t mean to startle you—there’s been movement nearby. I had to be sure you were safe.