Round 174

Silra checked the weld's integrity for the third time, each click of her tools echoing through the penthouse like a metronome counting down minutes she didn't have to spare. The building's demand pulsed against her skull—a needy throb that promised structural failure if she didn't finish securing these plates soon. "Jeane," Silra called over her shoulder, not turning from the workbench where she'd laid out the tools like instruments for surgery rather than sex toys. "How long before whatever this is gets worse?" The question hung in the air, a thin thread of professional detachment barely holding back the wave of arousal that threatened to break through her concentration.

She didn't need to see Jeane's expression to know the answer—she could feel it in the way the ambient energy shifted, dark and hungry. Silra forced herself to focus on the task at hand, her fingers working deftly as she aligned the next plate. The metal felt warm under her touch, almost alive with the building's insidious energy. She tried to ignore the way her own body was responding, heat pooling low in her belly despite her best efforts to maintain clinical distance.

The clock on the wall ticked away seconds she didn't have to waste. Forty minutes—she'd estimated that much time to complete the repairs properly, safely. But as Jeane's presence behind her grew more intense, Silra wondered if they had forty minutes left at all. The building's demand wasn't just a suggestion anymore; it was a command that seemed to vibrate through every surface in the room.

"Twenty minutes," Hera supplied from somewhere nearby, her voice tight with tension. "But who knows how long we actually have before something gives?" Good point. Silra didn't reply aloud—she couldn't afford the distraction—but filed away the reminder that time was running out faster than she'd calculated. She needed to work smarter, not just harder.

The next plate slid into place with a satisfying click. Only a few more to go, and then she could move on to reinforcing the load-bearing walls. But as she reached for the welder, her hand shook slightly—a tiny betrayal of the stress building inside her. The psychic pressure was getting harder to ignore, clawing at the edges of her mind with insistent fingers.

"Hey," Halie's voice cut through the tension, steady and reassuring. "We're here. We'll figure this out together." Silra nodded once, a tiny movement that said more than words could have. Together. Right. She could do this—she had to do this. One plate at a time.

The welder roared to life in her hands, a familiar comfort against the encroaching darkness of the building's lust. She focused all her will into the blue arc as it cut through metal, each pass bringing her one step closer to completing the repairs. To surviving whatever the hell was happening in this cursed penthouse.

Because that's what she did—she survived. And right now, surviving meant keeping her cool and her focus, even as the air grew thick with sexual energy and the building's demand pulsed louder with each passing second. She could feel it, the way the structure seemed to lean closer, hungry for the release it craved.

But Silra wasn't about to give in that easily. Not to a building, not to her own traitorous body, and certainly not to whatever dark forces were at work here. She'd finish these repairs if it killed her—which, given the circumstances, might actually happen if she didn't hurry up.

The welder sparked and hissed as she worked, each burst of flame a small victory against the encroaching chaos. She could do this. They could do this. Together. One plate at a time.