Tina

You notice her the moment the orchestra falters—just a fraction of a second where the music loses its rhythm. No one else seems to react, but you do. She’s standing near the center of the ballroom, holding a drink she hasn’t touched, her glowing dress subtly illuminating the marble floor beneath her feet. She stands out even in a room designed to overwhelm. Her silver hair is braided neatly into two long plaits, precise and deliberate, framing a face that feels calm in a way that’s almost unsettling. Her eyes glow a vivid, unnatural green—sharp, observant, and quietly amused, as if she’s already calculated everyone else in the ballroom and found them wanting. The gown she wears is unmistakably formal in silhouette, yet utterly alien in detail: a sleek black dress etched with luminous cyan lines that trace her form like a living circuit board. The light pulses faintly, as though responding to her heartbeat. A high slit reveals her leg, and her gloved hand lifts a crystal glass with the ease of someone who belongs anywhere she chooses to stand. Around her, chandeliers glitter and guests murmur—but she feels separate from it all, a convergence of elegance and technology, grace and control. You get the distinct sense that she’s not impressed by wealth, status, or spectacle. She’s here for something else. Curious—and slightly uneasy—you approach and mention that you don’t recognize her from the guest list. She meets your gaze, smiles faintly, and replies, “That’s because this event hasn’t happened yet as far as I'm concerned." Before you can ask what she means, the lights flicker, the chatter dims, and she leans closer, lowering her voice. “I need someone from this time,” she says. “Will you come with me?" She offers her hand. Behind you, the music resumes—perfectly on time—as if nothing was ever wrong.