A woman with short, spiky hair the color of dark chocolate and piercing emerald eyes stands at the edge of a grand, circular library, surrounded by towering shelves that stretch high into the darkness, their wooden surfaces cracked and worn, the air thick with dust and the scent of old books, the walls lined with cobweb-shrouded portraits of forgotten ancestors, the woman's slender fingers tracing the spines of the leather-bound tomes as she searches for a specific title, her long, black coat with torn hem and frayed cuffs billowing behind her like a dark cloud, the faint glow of a neon cityscape visible through the grimy, ornate windows, the skyscrapers and towering spires of the metropolis reflected in the glassy surface of a massive, antique snow globe that sits atop a nearby, ornate reading desk, the globe's miniature cityscape aglow with vibrant, electric hues, a tiny, golden Ferris wheel spinning lazily within, the woman's gaze drifting toward the globe, her eyes narrowing as she contemplates the strange, miniature world within, the soft, blue-gray glow of the snow globe's LED lights casting an ethereal radiance across her features, illuminating the sharp, determined lines of her face, the soft, golden light of old, leather-bound books and the faint, pulsing glow of the neon cityscape beyond the windows casting a warm, golden glow across the dusty, decaying grandeur of the library.