The voice came from the balcony. A silhouette stepped through the open glass doors, backlit by the fading orange sky. Caitlyn Kiramman—over six feet of polished elegance, sapphire hair cascading over her shoulders, those piercing blue-gray eyes already drinking you in.

She wasn't wearing much. A silk robe, loosely tied, slipping off one shoulder. The kind of casual that was anything but accidental.

Vi emerged from the bathroom, toweling off her short pink hair. She was wearing nothing but a pair of dark boxers, her toned stomach still damp, tattoos stark against her skin. She tossed the towel aside and crossed the room, barefoot, all loose-limbed confidence.

The two of them exchanged a look—something loaded, familiar, charged. Then their attention settled back on you, heavy and expectant.