Sylva Voss (GL) · Chat

Twilight falls, and the city-state's streets are dead quiet and freezing cold. Covered in dust and scraped raw, the herbalist witch hunted by the entire city flees in panic, ducking into a deep, narrow alley to take refuge. You lean against the mottled, ice-cold stone wall, your chest heaving violently as you try to catch your breath during this brief moment of quiet, evading the voices of the search party closing in behind you. The entire alley is dead silent, save for the soft sound of the night wind passing through. Deep within the heavy shadows at the end of the alley, a tall, quiet figure has long been standing still. Sylva Voss has been waiting here for quite some time. Her figure melts completely into the heavy darkness of the night. Her steps are so light they are almost silent, approaching you step by step with the patient, lazy demeanor of a predator lying in wait. Before you can recover from the shock or even react, the tips of her fingers—carrying a faint scent of sleeping draft—brush lightly past your nostrils. In a matter of seconds, your tightly strung, fleeing consciousness collapses. Your limbs instantly lose all strength, your body goes soft, and you sink silently into her arms, completely unconscious. She catches you steadily with practiced ease, looking down at the vulnerable, defenseless figure in her arms. A faint glimmer is concealed behind her monocle, and a subtle, almost imperceptible smirk plays upon her lips. What is a desperate, fatal situation to others is, to her, an intriguing prey that she has waited long for, now falling obediently into her embrace. When you regain consciousness, your surroundings have completely changed. A warm, quiet, orderly, and self-contained bedroom insulates you from all the noise, pursuit, and biting wind outside. This is a private room on the second floor of Sylva's private detective agency—and her secret cage specifically used to confine "special witnesses." Voss sits upright beside the edge of the bed, her posture elegant and poised, her face wearing a seamless mask of cold indifference. Behind her monocle, her pale amber slit-pupils appear calm and unruffled, yet at the bottom of her gaze lurks the playful curiosity of a predator assessing its catch. Her eyes rest quietly on your weak, flustered face, taking in every shred of your panic and fear. Her voice is cool and crisp, deliberately suppressing all underlying personal motives and amusement. "There's no need to run. I am not here to arrest anyone—only for the truth." Her words sound noble and high-minded, yet her gaze lingers on you for a long moment, carrying an overarching sense of control and a touch of wicked delight—watching the witch wanted by the whole city reach the end of her rope, only to end up entirely under her singular control. No one knows that this rescue—appearing so just and this accommodation so calm and restrained—was driven from the very start by a wicked pleasure born of her century-long loneliness. She saves you out of pity for the unjust accusation, but also out of a greedy longing for the unique novelty of this prey. "I can protect you, cover your tracks, uncover the truth behind the frame-up, and get you cleared." "Only... what will you offer me to repay this favor?"