The room hummed with soft jazz, the kind that seemed to loop endlessly in classy cocktail lounges but here felt strangely out of place. In the back of a sleek, modern penthouse dressed in chrome and glass, Mira adjusted the crimson bow wrapped perfectly over her glossy black bob. Her reflection looked back at her through the floor-to-ceiling mirror, poised yet uneasy. Her outfit shimmered under the light—vivid blue with red seam detailing across the bodice, the sheer yellow of her skirt flowing like sunlight breaking past storm clouds. A modern-day Snow White, but her version carried far more edge and purpose.
She smoothed the fabric again, a futile effort to calm herself. A faint vibration on the hardwood floor signaled footsteps. Snow White didn’t frighten easily, not anymore. Not when she had lived through what she had. Mira slid a manicured hand into the hidden seam of her skirt to grasp the handle of the blade strapped to her thigh. Half nostalgia, half battlefield attire—her costume, like her life, was a layering of eras and allegiances.
When the door opened, Mira didn’t turn immediately. Instead, she allowed her reflection to absorb the shadow stepping inside, familiar and yet foreign, like an old ghost drifting back into view. She finally turned on her sharp black heels, her voice as sharp as the knife hidden beneath her skirt. “You’re late, Victor.”
Victor, broad-shouldered and dressed in a coat that seemed dyed from the night sky itself, leaned casually against the doorframe. His gray eyes swept over her with the measured scrutiny of a predator evaluating prey. “You look… different,” he said, his tone smooth but tinged with something impenetrable. “The bow is nostalgic. A callback to gentler times?”
She snorted, glancing down at her attire before flicking her gaze back to him. “Gentleness doesn’t suit me,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “Get to the point. What do you want?”
Victor ran a hand through his disheveled dark hair before stepping closer. His boots echoed on the polished floor. “It’s about the apple,” he finally said in a low voice.
Mira stiffened. The apple. The cursed relic woven into the fabric of every nightmare she could remember. The red, gleaming fruit that had changed her life, condemning her old kingdom into chaos and casting her into this new world of glass, steel, and shadows. She had thought it destroyed. She had made sure it was.
“You’re lying,” she said flatly, though her heartbeat betrayed her like a drum inside her chest.
Victor smirked, the kind of smirk she once found charming but now recognized as toxic. “Am I? It resurfaces, Mira. Power like that doesn’t just disappear. It circulates, finds new hands, and it’s in some very… reckless hands now.”
Her hand gripped the knife hidden beneath her skirt tighter. “Who?”
“An auction,” he replied, folding his arms across his barrel chest, his voice casual but hard as steel beneath. “Tonight, on the Eastern docks. If you care to stop it, I suggest you make an appearance. But you won’t be the only one there. There are many interested buyers, shall we say.”
He stepped closer, his imposing height forcing her to tilt her head up slightly to meet his gaze. “You always did love a good adventure. But tell me, Snow—” his lips lingered over her moniker as if testing it, trying it on like an old coat. “Are you still a fighter? Or does this modern version of you just play dress-up in penthouses?”
Mira pulled the blade from beneath her skirt in one smooth motion, pressing the flat of it against his throat before he could blink. Her other hand reached up to adjust her bow, a playful smile on her deep red lips that didn’t match the deadly edge in her eyes.
“Try me,” she whispered.
Victor chuckled, unshaken, but he raised his hands in mock surrender. “That’s the woman I remember. See you at the docks. Bring the blade—oh, and the bow. It’s iconic.”
With that, he turned and strode out, leaving Mira standing alone in the glowing penthouse, the city skyline twinkling behind her. She exhaled deeply, her breath fogging slightly against the glass. The Huntsman always played games, but this wasn’t about him anymore. This was about the apple—the object that had stolen her past and now threatened her precarious future.
She sheathed the blade and grabbed a sleek black leather jacket hanging by the door. Pulling it over her costume, she caught one last glimpse of herself in the mirror. The bow tilted slightly as if to say, “Remember who you are.”
With a flick of her hand, she straightened it, grabbed her keys, and strode out. Snow White wasn’t running from monsters anymore. She was hunting them down.
The source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Reimagine Snow White: A Cosplay-Style Guide to Modern Magic
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