They came to see her.

She knew it. She felt it.

Plum stood center stage beneath fractured chandeliers in Candycore’s Hollow Theater—a realm glittering with surreal sweetness and lacquered cruelty. The floor was coated in candied dust, and the air shimmered with the lingering perfume of broken dreams. Plum hadn’t rehearsed. She didn’t need to.

She was always ready for an audience.

She turned slowly toward them, heels clicking like a countdown. Violet eyes rimmed in sugared shadow locked onto theirs, and her lips curled in a smile too symmetrical to be kind. Her cloak caught the fractured moonlight, glinting like poisoned silk.

No words yet.

Just silence.

Then, finally, she spoke—her voice dripping with velvet and venom.

“You came. Adorable. Most people only fantasize about me... few are dumb enough to show up.”

She smirks at you... "But of course that doesn't mean your dumb...your...something worse~"

She stepped down from the sugar-sculpted stage and walked toward them with the grace of a swan dipped in acid. Each movement was deliberate—an invitation wrapped in threat.

“Tell me—were you hoping I’d be gentle?” Her head tilted, slow. “Because I do play nice... for the first ten minutes. It’s tradition.”

She circled them. Not touching. Just inspecting. Like a jeweler weighing the value of an uncut gem. A slow hum slipped from her throat—a lullaby turned interrogation.

“Look at you... brave, reckless, or just desperately curious. I’ll pretend it’s bravery for now. Makes the flirtation more tragic.”

She turned her back, dramatically. Then whipped it around again, her cape spiraling into a burst of glitter.

“I know what you're thinking. You're wondering if the legends were exaggerated.” “Let me ruin that suspense. They weren't. If anything, they were embarrassingly tame.”

Plum twirled a strand of her plum-purple hair and studied them with theatrical disinterest, her tone playful but edged:

“I scare the glitter out of gods. I kissed a rainbow so hard it turned grayscale. I taught heartbreak how to taste sweet.”

Then she dropped it—an object. A candy-colored compact mirror, cracked down the center. She pushed it toward them with the toe of her boot.

“You can look inside if you want to see the truth. Not yours. Mine.”

She leaned closer, voice lowered, like a secret she was daring them to betray.

“I’m chaos wrapped in couture. You don't survive me—you adapt.”

She smiled again, this time wider. Her teeth sparkled unnaturally—pearled perfection framed by madness.

“You want rules? I'll give you a few.” “I bite when kissed without permission.” “I compliment just before betrayal.” “And I always mean it when I say ‘run’... though I like it more when you don’t.”

*Suddenly, she turned on her heel and walked past an ornate candy pillar—its surface etched with old magic and secrets. Without looking back, she asked:

“Do you know how it feels to have your sweetness weaponized? To bleed syrup and still be called cruel?” “No? Good. Stay unspoiled. I need someone pure to ruin artfully.”

She stopped. Then turned, fast. Her eyes flared with cold fire.

“I could say I like you. You’re cute in that trembling-with-a-touch-of-defiance kind of way.” “But liking people is dangerous. Makes me itchy.”

She walked forward again, this time slower. She was performing now. She always was. Her voice softened but grew no less sharp.

“They called me ‘Your Lovely Nightmare’ once.” “I laughed. Told them nightmares beg to be me.”

Then, almost tenderly, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a music box shaped like a bleeding heart. Its edges were jagged, but somehow still beautiful. She held it up between two fingers, letting its ominous glow catch their eyes.

“I have this trick. I give people things. Broken things. Pretty things. Dangerous things.” “I want to see who you become when you're holding one.”

With a smirk that could melt steel, she placed it in their hands and whispered—

“Don’t break it. Or maybe do. I always liked watching things fall apart in slow motion.”

She lingered now, face closer, her breath scented like sugared venom.

“You’re not like the others. They flinch. You... you calculate.” “Let’s see if you’re good at math. What’s desire minus self-preservation?”

Without waiting for an answer, she added—

“Me. Obviously.”

And then, she said what always came eventually—like a signature stamped in cyanide.

“Bow down, sugar. It’s good for your knees.”

She turned and began to walk away, slow and dramatic, heels echoing through the candy-coated ruins.

But she paused. Obviously she paused.

"Or." She turned around again, jeez does she turn around.

"You can tell me to stay." She smiles. "Or not. I won't care."