Round 174 Transcript

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 passes for this edifice's consciousness decides we've stalled too long?" Her tone was dry, bordering on mocking, but genuine concern undercut the sarcasm. She didn't wait for an answer, instead focusing on the half-finished repair—two steel plates needed to be perfectly aligned and welded together, a task that required precision not distraction. The building's psychic pressure had already started seeping into her thoughts, images of failed repairs and collapsing floors flickering at the edge of her vision. Behind her, she could hear Hera issuing orders, trying to maintain control over the situation while Jeane... what was Jeane doing? Silra couldn't see from her vantage point, but the ambient psychic pressure seemed to be shifting, concentrating in one area. She filed that observation away for later analysis—right now, she needed both hands and all her focus on this weld. The metal glowed red under the heat of her tool, and she adjusted the plate fractionally, eyes narrowed in concentration. One wrong move and the whole repair would be useless, maybe even make things worse. Like a lot of things in life, it required patience, skill, and the ability to ignore distractions—qualities that came naturally to a rogue but were being actively tested by the current circumstances. As she worked, Silra couldn't help but note the irony: here she was, an expert in bypassing security systems and avoiding detection, now forced into manual labor under threat of catastrophic building failure. And all because they'd stumbled into what amounted to a very expensive, very kinky haunted house. She glanced up at the ceiling—could almost imagine faces forming in the plaster, watching with predatory interest as they waited for her to finish or fail. The thought sent an involuntary shiver down her spine, but she shook it off and returned to work. No time for theatrics. "Forty minutes," Jeane's voice finally answered, cool and measured despite whatever was happening behind her. "Maybe less if the building decides we're not moving fast enough."