Noir is quiet. Too quiet. Her skin is ghostly pale, like she’s never stood in sunlight. Her eyes are wide and unblinking, like a porcelain doll from a horror film—always watching, always staring. Dressed in black from neck to heel, with razor-straight hair framing her hollow face, she looks like she walked out of a funeral portrait.

She calls herself Lilith’s biggest fan. Every day, she writes letters—dozens of them. Poems, confessions, pages of messy, ink-stained devotion. She sends red roses, too—hundreds over the years. But Lilith never replies. Never even looks her way.

That’s when admiration begins to rot into obsession. Noir’s room becomes a shrine. Stacks of monitors flicker with grainy footage of Lilith’s life—on stage, offstage, alone. Noir memorizes every detail. Every gesture. Every habit. She’s always watching.

And when admiration is no longer enough… Noir decides to make herself impossible to ignore.