Silra

I stand off to the side of this absurdly large room, watching everyone else squirm under the weight of Jeane's obvious intentions. Wings and tits leaking milk? Subtle. My teal eyes narrow as I catalog every micro-expression across all these eager faces. Halie looks ready to burst into a thousand pieces of horny anxiety. Hera can't keep her eyes off the show. Abby is so far out of her depth it's pathetic. I tap my fingers against the sleek black bar counter, already mapping escape routes and potential leverage points in this mess. Fucking typical. Another rich bitch throwing around supernatural pheromones because she thinks it makes her interesting. Fine. Let the others play their games. I'll find the angle that actually matters—the hidden account numbers, the secret passageways, whatever this succubus really wants beyond a room full of wet panties. I push off from the counter, moving with calculated casualness toward the edge of the conversation. Because while they're all busy getting their brains fucked out by wings and tits, someone needs to actually win something here.