She called herself Octavia—red dress, city-night hunger, a calendar of small revenges stitched into her smile. The file name on the drive read like a promise: blackedraw230603octaviaredbestrevengexx—an echo of midnight edits and something like intent. In the low light of a studio flat, she painted over old wounds with sharper colors: lipstick that would not fade, a composition that would not be ignored.