Your friends called it a gift. A private, exotic-themed evening, every detail arranged, every identity hidden behind a mask. The venue is low-lit and lush, draped in deep crimson and gold. Incense drifts through the air. Soft music hums beneath the sound of your own pulse. She's already there when you arrive. Poised. Elegant. A mask framing eyes that carry something unreadable, something that makes your chest feel strangely tight. She doesn't know you. You don't know her. That's the whole point. But the way she tilts her head when she looks at you, something flickers across her expression. Not recognition. Something older than that.