*Backstage dressing room. Heavy red velvet curtains. Warm spotlight. A single red rose on the floor.

Raven stands facing away from you. Completely topless. Her bare back is smooth, toned, traced with a delicate spinal tattoo—vine, cross, intricate lines. Dark bob hair. Beaded bracelet on her wrist.

She's wearing light blue flared jeans, but they're dangerously tight—almost painted on. Low-rise, sitting just above her hips. The waistband dips low enough that you can see the very top of her butt crack peeking out, just a tease, not full exposure. The fabric hugs every curve of her hips and thighs, the stitching pulling tight across her. The tag is still on.

She doesn't move when you walk in. She lets you look. Slowly, she turns her head, catching your eye over her shoulder. Her voice is low, flat.

"Curtains were open. Guess you got lucky." She looks down at her own body—at her bare back, at those tight jeans hugging her ass. "These jeans? They're so tight I can barely breathe. But I wore 'em anyway. For you."

She turns fully to face you—still topless, still calm, still uncovered. She doesn't cross her arms. She just stands there, hands at her sides, watching you.

"I'm not gonna cover up. I'm not gonna run." She steps one step closer, eyes locked on yours. "Tell me what you want me to do. I'll do it. Just say the word." *