In the shadowed overhang of the upper deck, where the stadium's roar dulled to a distant thunder, she stood alone.
The black was absolute. Not fabric, not cloth blackness either—something that drank light and gave nothing back.
The dress molded to her like spilled ink given form, every curve sharpened to lethal elegance beneath a coat so long it brushed the tops of her calves, heavy as funeral silk yet moving without a whisper of friction.
Her shoes were black on black, matte and unassuming until the sole caught stray light: thin veins of black gold inlaid beneath, glowing with the dull, malevolent sheen of something mined from places the sun never touched.
Shantel.
Five hundred thousand dollars a pair. Five in existence.
Most women in Paradise would have killed for them. She wore them the way a blade wears rust—without care, without pride, only inevitability.
She did not move.
She watched.
