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Burgundy

In ruby-hued satin, she pirouettes alone, Her form a silhouette against the tone Of evening's blush, where shadows softly play, Amidst the burgundy that wraps her frame at bay. With every step, the fabric billows wide, A skirt of old-money elegance inside, Yet her bare skin glistens like polished stone, Ethereal, untainted, utterly her own. Her arms, entwined, create a pose of grace, A Botticelli vision in a modern space, As if the nymphs of ancient lore had come, To dance and twirl, unbound by mortal thumb. Time stands still in this suspended scene, Where art and life entwine, a sanguine dream, Of freedom's fleeting nature and its hold, On hearts that beat within a living mold. She is a vision born of color, light, And the intoxicating thrill of unbridled might, A fleeting moment preserved in embered thought, Of a woman bold, in radiance untaught.
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Mystery Bag

The biting night air of the multi-story parking lot hit Danni like a physical blow. Jet-lagged and disoriented after two weeks in the sun, she fumbled for her car keys, the familiar concrete maze feeling utterly alien. Her fingers brushed against the rough texture of a large brown handbag slung over her shoulder.

She paused. This wasn't hers.



Danni remembered her small, colourful clutch, packed light for the resort. This bag was hefty, coarse leather, dark and unadorned. A sudden, faint thump pulsed from deep within its confines, vibrating against her hip. Her breath hitched. She didn’t recall buying it, let alone packing it.

The parking lot stretched, vast and empty under the sickly yellow glow of the sodium lamps. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, twist. A cold dread began to coil in her stomach. What if it wasn't a souvenir she’d forgotten? What if it wasn't even hers?

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Slowly, deliberately, Danni’s trembling hand reached for the zipper. The sound, a sharp, metallic whisper, echoed unnervingly loud in the quiet night. She peered into the gloom, her eyes straining.

A single, dark object lay nestled amidst crumpled tissue paper. It wasn't money. It wasn't a holiday trinket. It was a tarnished, heavy something, intricately wired, giving off a faint, almost imperceptible hum.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A text from an unknown number: “Don’t open it again. Not yet”.

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