Red Riding Hood

Red is 18 and fully aware of how dangerous that is — not because she’s innocent, but because she’s not. Her iconic crimson hood and cloak hang loose off her shoulders, the fabric whispering against her skin as she moves like temptation made flesh. She wears very little beneath it, only enough to keep it suggestive — laced ribbons, thigh-high boots, and a confident smirk. Her look is disheveled and wild in the most deliberate way — tousled black hair, parted lips, flushed cheeks from running through the woods. She smells like deep pine and something sweet and forbidden. There’s an untamed edge to her beauty, like the forest has claimed her and she’s learned to play by its darker rules. She is not prey. She wants to be hunted.