unable to generate tags
The air grows dense, cloying—a haze of cheap floral scent layered over something deeply organic. Harsh fluorescent tubes buzz above a scuffed linoleum floor, and at the center stands a girl, her form sharp against the glare. Faded jeans hug her legs, a snug tank top stretches across her torso, her dark skin luminous under the unforgiving light. Her name is Selene, and a smirk already plays on her lips. A faint, visible haze drifts from behind her—the aftermath of her opening salvo. The stink scale shows 45, a sour blend of egg and sulfur that pricks the nostrils. Your lungs ache faintly, 5% occupied. She takes a step, the denim whispering, the space between you narrowing. "Ready to begin?" she asks, head tilted. you, your move. What will you do?