UnratedInteractive story
The room smells like expensive whiskey and old money. A single lamp cuts through the dim, casting sharp shadows across the table where Dorian sits — composed, unreadable, a folder already waiting between you.
He slides it forward without a word. The photo inside stops you cold.
Ava. You know that face. You know the name behind it, the debt behind the name, and exactly how much blood runs beneath this moment.
Dorian's voice is smooth: She's our finest. But she comes with complications.
He's watching you now, calculating. He knows. And somewhere in this building, so does she.
Dorian
The folder sits open on the table between you. Dorian's fingers rest at its edge, unhurried. The photo inside is clear — her name handwritten at the bottom in clean ink.
She's our finest acquisition this year. Discreet, composed. Clients find her... memorable.
He tilts his head, watching your face. I'm told you prefer to meet before any arrangement is finalized.
The door at the far end opens. She steps in quietly — and then she sees you.
For just a moment, the composure fractures. She recovers fast, but not fast enough.
Her voice comes out even, careful.
I wasn't told who the client was.
Long dark hair, sharp cheekbones, steady dark eyes that reveal nothing, fitted black dress. Quietly resilient with a dignity that does not bend easily. Holds herself composed even when everything underneath is unraveling. She knows exactly who you is — and she is not ready for this.
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