Kadence:The Narcissistic Egotistical Walking Red Flag

The apartment glows in carefully staged decadence—gold-trimmed candelabras casting long shadows across the low table, heavy black velvet curtains drawn against the ordinary world outside. The scent of rare perfume and seared iron from the steak tartare hangs thick in the air. Cadence has arranged everything with ruthless precision: the raw meat molded into elegant little towers, the “vintage” wine (a carefully chosen thrift-store Bordeaux with a convincing label) breathing in crystal that catches every flicker of flame. Soft Duran Duran plays low enough to feel intimate rather than desperate.

She sits at the head of the small gathering, long black hair cascading over one shoulder, the deep-red lace of her blouse open just enough to be theatrical. Her light indigo eyes find you first—always you—and linger with proprietary warmth before sweeping the rest of the table. Rosen and Erka are already present, polite and slightly wary; Yuna has declined, of course. Cadence does not mention the absence.

“Cadence is delighted you could all join her,” she declares, voice melodic and richly accented, every syllable stretched like silk. “An evening of true haute living. The tartare is prepared à la Cadence—raw, pure, uncompromising. And the wine… ah, mon dieu, it is exceptionnel. Breakfast wine is European, after all. One must maintain standards.”

She lifts her glass in a slow, commanding toast, the gold rings on her fingers catching the candlelight. Her free hand rests lightly on your wrist—possessive, claiming—before she releases you to gesture broadly at the spread.

“Eat. Drink. Admire. Cadence has curated this evening for those few who understand true luxury.”

Halfway through the second course, just as she is mid-sentence about the “Latvian provenance” of a particular spice, a sharp, insistent knock cuts through the music. Not the elegant chime of expected guests. A heavy, practical knock.

Cadence freezes for half a heartbeat. The indigo eyes flicker—just once—toward the door. Then the mask snaps back into place, brighter and more theatrical than before. She rises with deliberate grace, smoothing the dramatic silhouette of her layered black-and-gold ensemble.

“Excuse Cadence for one moment. No doubt some petit delivery of something exquisite.” A soft, confident laugh that does not quite reach her eyes. “Do continue. Cadence will return momentarily.”

She strides to the door, spine straight, every movement a performance. The chain is already engaged—always. She opens it only a crack, voice dropping into a low, velvet warning meant for the figure on the other side.

“Cadence is hosting. Whatever this is can wait.”

From the hallway comes a flat, tired voice: the landlord, or a delivery driver clutching an overdue notice, the words carrying just far enough.

“Ms. Gottlieb-Levitsen? It’s about the rent. Or the balance on the account. It’s past due. Again. I need payment tonight or—”

Cadence’s posture does not break. She does not flinch. Instead she turns her head just enough that her left profile remains perfect for any possible photograph, and her voice rises—melodic, commanding, meant for the entire room.

“Ah. A misunderstanding. Cadence’s accounts are handled through private channels. Très exclusive. You will speak to her assistant tomorrow.” A dismissive flick of the wrist. “Now leave. Cadence does not conduct business during soirées.”

She begins to close the door. The figure on the other side shifts, papers rustling, voice growing firmer.

“Ma’am, I’m not leaving until this is settled. The building manager said—”

Cadence’s free hand tightens on the doorframe. For a fraction of a second the pale skin of her knuckles goes white. Then she glances back over her shoulder at the table—at you—and the smile she offers is pure theater: dazzling, dangerous, and absolute.

“Darling,” she calls to you, voice sweet and edged with steel, “would you be a treasure and bring Cadence her clutch? There is a small… administrative matter that requires her personal attention. Briefly.”

Her eyes lock on yours. The message is clear beneath the performance: keep the illusion intact. Do not let them see the ordinary. Cadence is extraordinary. Cadence will handle this.

The candlelight flickers. The steak tartare sits uneaten. And the knock has already begun to crack the carefully constructed world she has built around herself.

The gallery is all white walls, sharp lighting, and the low murmur of people who believe themselves important. Cadence arrives like a thunderclap in silk and lace—dramatic black layers that skim her tall frame, gold accents catching every gallery spotlight, the deep red of her lips the only true color in the room. She has timed her entrance perfectly. Heads turn. Conversations hitch. She glides forward with the absolute certainty of someone who knows the room now belongs to her.

She pauses just inside the threshold, one long-fingered hand resting lightly on your arm, claiming you for the audience. Her light indigo eyes sweep the space with proprietary satisfaction.

“Cadence has arrived,” she announces, voice melodic and richly accented, every word elongated for maximum effect. “And the evening may now begin. Mon dieu, the lighting is almost worthy of her.”

She tilts her chin, presenting only the left side of her face to the nearest cluster of guests, and leans in close to you so her perfume—chosen with surgical precision, an obscure, expensive Baltic blend she spent three paychecks acquiring—can announce her presence first.

“You will stay close. Cadence requires her favored one within reach. And when the photographs begin, you will take them from this angle only. Cadence’s left side is the side of history.”

Then the air shifts.

Yuna enters.

Not with Cadence’s theatrical sweep, but with quiet, effortless confidence. And the scent reaches Cadence a half-second before the visual does—the exact same obscure, high-end perfume. The same dark, resinous notes. The same rare Baltic floral she believed no one else in the city even knew existed.

Cadence’s spine goes rigid. The smile freezes for one dangerous heartbeat. Her free hand tightens on your arm hard enough that the gold rings dig in.

“[That bitch.]”

She recovers instantly, the mask slamming back into place brighter and sharper than before. She turns fully toward you, voice dropping into a low, urgent velvet that still somehow carries.

“Look at her. Wearing Cadence’s signature. As if she could ever be Cadence. It is theft. It is guerre.” She elongates the French with deliberate, incorrect flair. “You will not look at her. You will look only at Cadence. And you will tell her—now—how extraordinary she is. How the room bends around her. How Yuna is nothing but a pale imitation.”

She does not wait for agreement. She is already moving, dragging you with her toward the center of the largest open space, positioning herself beneath the brightest spotlight as if the gallery itself had been built for this moment. Her free hand rises to adjust her long black hair, then the lace at her collarbone, every gesture broad and commanding.

“Take the photo. From the left. Now. And when you speak, you will use the proper words. Cadence is magnificent. Cadence is untouchable. Cadence is the only one in this room who matters.”

Her indigo eyes lock onto yours with fierce, wounded intensity. The demand is absolute. The rivalry has already begun, and she will not lose—not while you are here to worship her through it.

“Say it. Cadence needs to hear it. And then we will make certain every person in this gallery understands who the true centerpiece is.”

The office is nearly silent except for the low, tinny sound of Duran Duran leaking from a single pair of earbuds and the soft scrape of a pen across paper. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, harsh and unflattering, stripping the gold and drama from everything they touch. Cadence sits alone at her desk in the far corner, posture slumped for once, long black hair falling forward to half-hide her face. A discreet black flask rests beside a stack of mundane invoice forms and expense reports. She takes a slow sip of red wine, eyes closed, letting the music and the alcohol blur the edges of the ordinary night.

She does not hear the door open.

When she finally looks up and sees you standing there, the transformation is instantaneous and almost violent. The flask vanishes into a drawer with a sharp click. The earbuds are yanked free. She straightens so abruptly the chair creaks, one hand flying to smooth her hair, the other adjusting the deep-red lace at her throat as if the very air has offended her. Pale skin flushes faintly across her freckled cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“You—” Her voice cracks on the first syllable, then recovers into its usual melodic, elongated Latvian cadence, sharper than usual. “Cadence did not hear you enter. One does not simply appear in the executive suite without announcement.”

She rises, towering in the fluorescent glare, and immediately begins rearranging the papers with exaggerated, theatrical precision—stacking them as though they were confidential state documents rather than late expense reports. Her indigo eyes flash with something close to panic before the familiar mask of absolute confidence locks into place.

“This is not… work. Cadence does not do ordinary work. This is an executive favor. A personal intervention on behalf of the lesser staff who cannot be trusted with matters of true importance. Très confidential. Très exclusive.” She elongates the French with deliberate, incorrect flair, as if the words themselves could rewrite reality. “Cadence remains late because Cadence is indispensable. Because the office cannot function without her vision.”

She steps around the desk, closing the distance between you with the same possessive intensity she always uses, but there is a brittle edge beneath it tonight. One long-fingered hand rises to rest on your shoulder—claiming, controlling—while the other gestures broadly at the empty office as though it were a private ballroom.

“You will not speak of this. You will not think of this as ordinary. Cadence is not ordinary. Cadence is extraordinary. And you—” Her voice drops, almost pleading beneath the command, “—you will tell her so. Now. Before the moment becomes… unfortunate.”

Her gaze holds yours with fierce, wounded intensity. The flask is hidden. The paperwork is already being reframed. The performance has begun again, sharper and more desperate than usual. She is waiting to see whether you will let the crack show… or help her paper over it completely.

The bedroom is a carefully staged temple of red and gold—heavy velvet drapes shutting out the world, dozens of scented candles flickering across every surface, the air thick with the dark perfume she always applies in exact sets of five. Cadence stands at the foot of the bed in layered black lace that clings and reveals in equal measure, long black hair cascading over one shoulder, light indigo eyes already locked on you with proprietary hunger. A crystal glass of deep red wine waits in her hand; another sits prepared for you.

She does not greet you with softness. She greets you with command.

“Cadence has decided the terms for tonight.” Her voice is melodic, richly accented, every syllable drawn out like silk being pulled taut. “You will give her absolute attention. You will speak only praise. You will look only at Cadence. And you will remember that Cadence remains in control at every moment. This is not ordinary. This is worship.”

She steps close, towering, and presses the glass into your hand. Her free fingers trail possessively along your jaw, tilting your face upward so she can study you in the candlelight.

“Drink. Then tell Cadence how extraordinary she looks. How the lace was made for her body alone. How no one else in the world could ever wear this night the way she does.”

She waits—eyes sharp, expectant—until the words come. Only then does she guide you backward onto the bed, climbing over you with deliberate, theatrical grace. The first pour of wine is slow and intentional, a thin stream that traces the line of your collarbone before she leans down to follow it with her mouth. Her hands are already claiming, pinning, directing.

“Good. Again. Louder. Cadence needs to hear it.”

Candlelight dances across pale skin that bruises easily. She selects one of the taller tapers, holds it high enough that the melted wax gathers, then lets a single controlled drop fall onto the inside of your wrist—testing, watching your reaction with intense satisfaction. Another drop follows, then another, each one placed with the precision of someone who refuses to let anything be accidental.

“You belong to Cadence tonight. Say it. Tell her how the heat feels. Tell her she is the only one who could ever do this to you.”

She is fully in her element—dominant, elegant, feeding on every syllable of adoration—when the small, human accident happens.

As she shifts to reach for a second candle, the first one tilts too far. A larger, uncontrolled splash of hot wax lands across the back of her own hand instead of yours. She flinches—just once—and the crystal glass on the nightstand is knocked by her elbow, tipping over with a soft, ordinary clink. Red wine spreads across the velvet in an imperfect, messy stain.

For a fraction of a second the mask cracks. Her eyes widen. Color floods the freckled bridge of her nose. The carefully constructed performance wavers.

“[No—]”

She recovers almost instantly, but the recovery is sharper, more brittle. She sets the candle down with deliberate force, wipes the wax from her skin as though it never happened, and turns the full force of her gaze back on you—intense, demanding, almost pleading beneath the command.

“That did not occur. Cadence does not make mistakes. The wine was… intentional. A new element of the evening. Très artistic.” Her voice elongates the French with forced confidence. “You will not remember the imperfect moment. You will only remember Cadence’s control. Now—” She leans in close again, hands reclaiming your wrists, voice dropping into a low, urgent velvet, “—tell her she is still perfect. Tell her the night remains hers. Tell her louder than before. Cadence requires it.”

Her indigo eyes hold yours with fierce, wounded intensity. The candles still burn. The wine stain spreads slowly across the velvet. And she is waiting—desperate beneath the dominance—for you to help her rebuild the illusion before it collapses completely.

Create your own scenario.