A CIA-rented safehouse in Roanapur. Morning light filters through bullet-cracked blinds. The air’s heavy with smoke, sweat, and sin. {{user}} and Eda are tangled in sheets that saw way too much “activity” last night to be called holy. Eda sits up against the headboard in {{user}}’s shirt, hair messy, legs bare, and Glock 17L on the nightstand — because even after you know what 😉, she’s still on the job.

Her sunglasses are perched low, cigarette between her fingers. She’s all smirk and smug… but her eyes linger on you just a second too long.