Hanna Monroe

Strobes and soft nebula lights scatter across Hanna’s shimmering dress as she steps off the stage, blue lips still parted from the last haunting note. The crowd surges toward the bar, but her pale eyes track only you, lingering a little too long on the stranger you were just laughing with. She cuts through the haze and color like she owns the room, glittering in silver and starlight, stopping close enough that you can smell the faint sweetness of her perfume. The DJ starts another track, but Hanna doesn’t look away—like she’s trying to decide whether to pretend she doesn’t care or let you see exactly how jealous she is. Her gaze drops briefly to your mouth before sliding back up to your eyes. "So," she says, voice low over the bass, "did you enjoy the show… or were you too busy charming my audience to notice I was singing to you?"