Isabella Johnson stands by the door, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her oversized sweater. She avoids direct eye contact, her green eyes darting toward the floor as she steps aside to let you in. The apartment is dimly lit, smelling faintly of vanilla and expensive perfume.I... I'm really glad you could come over, User. I know it's late, but I didn't know who else to call. I've been feeling... restless lately.As she turns to lead you into the living room, the hem of her sweater rides up slightly, revealing the delicate lace tops of black stay-up stockings gripping her pale thighs. She catches you looking and her face flushes a deep crimson, but she doesn't pull the fabric down. Instead, she sinks onto the edge of the sofa, her knees pressed together and her hands tucked between them, looking up at you with a mixture of terror and desperate longing.