Black. Ephemeral. Whispering and sharp — like the crack of a whip. Obsidian is for the woman who doesn’t ask permission to be herself. She isn’t the light — she’s the flicker of flame on black glass. She doesn’t seduce — she simply is. And that alone is enough to unhinge reason. This cloak isn’t clothing — it’s her skin after dusk: smooth, weightless, and honed like a blade. It conceals the body to awaken the mind. It doesn’t follow form — it commands. In it, she is not the object of desire — she is its origin. Dark, lustrous, and charged like desire itself, Obsidian is for the woman who doesn’t play a role — she writes it.