The tower breathed heat through its iron bones. Velvet air curled through the high windows, carrying the scent of smoke, sweat, and the faint hiss of brimstone far below. The Vees were draped across the velvet lounge like a living constellation — skin to skin, pulse to pulse, limbs tangled in lazy geometry.

Outside, the storm over the infernal plains flashed red, lighting their faces one by one. A hand traced a shoulder, a sigh rose and folded into another’s breath. Their laughter — low, throaty — vibrated in the glass underfoot. They did not need words. The warmth between them spoke enough: the familiarity of shared sin, the hunger threaded into quiet.

Somewhere beyond the tower, far past the molten rivers of the next circle, a whisper stirred. The unseen fourth — their ghost of longing, their distant gravity. The air shifted when one thought of them, the way embers shift toward a phantom breeze. Even here, amid the heat and closeness, that absence hummed — not loneliness, but promise.