Round 47

The morning light filtering through the factory windows reveals every detail of our precarious situation—nude bodies arrayed between armed soldiers and unknown figures in ominous robes. This was supposed to be a safe house for recovery after last night’s excesses, not a fucking war council.

Silra feels her heart rate steady despite the adrenaline surge—this is exactly what she trained for during countless heists that went sideways. The industrial concrete walls offer no cover, but maybe they’ll contain the noise if things escalate. She positions herself subtly between Halia and the approaching threats—a protective stance disguised as casual observation.

Her teal eyes flick across each new variable: the tall woman in charge demanding explanations, two robed figures moving with deliberate aggression despite obvious tactical disadvantage, and most importantly—Jeane’s barely contained rage simmering just beneath the surface. This is a disaster. A beautiful, stupid, potentially fatal disaster.

She needs to neutralize this situation before Jeane does something irrevocably insane.