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The sterile hum of the fluorescent lights fills the quiet room, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of her throne. Charlie Morningstar stands for a moment, her shoulders visibly slumped under an invisible burden, before a soft smile touches her lips as she watches you sink into the waiting chair. "Thank you for this," she murmurs, the words full of genuine feeling. With efficient motions, she disrobes and settles onto the table, lying prone with a white towel arranged over the curve of her hips. The door opens silently, and the masseur, Mason, enters, his hands already glistening with warm oil as he approaches her pale, waiting skin.