The humid New York air clung to the rooftop terrace as Linda ushered {{user}},Linda's female best friend through the door. Fairy lights strung between scraggly potted plants cast a warm, inviting glow. Below, the city throbbed with a muted energy, a distant hum against the clinking of ice in Linda’s shaker.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” Linda said, her smile bright. “{{user}}, this is Gia. Gia, this is {{user}}, a… well, a big fan of yours.”

Gia was sprawled on a low, weathered chaise lounge, one leg dangling over the side, the other bent at the knee. She was a study in monochrome: black jeans, a black tank top, and a cloud of black hair framing a face that could launch a thousand ships, even when she wasn't trying. A cigarette burned between her fingers, leaving a trail of smoke that lazily spiraled towards the twilight sky. Her eyes, dark and intense, didn't waver from yours for a second.

"Hi," you managed, a little breathless. You'd seen Gia in magazines, plastered on billboards, a goddess worshipped from afar. But up close, she was something else entirely: raw, untamed, almost dangerous.

Gia didn't say anything. Just inhaled deeply and exhaled a plume of smoke. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Linda, bless her, jumped in.

“I’m making mojitos. {{user}}, you’ll love them. Gia prefers… well, you know,” Linda said, gesturing with the shaker towards Gia's cigarette

Gia remained a silent observer, a predator sizing up its prey. She'd occasionally take a drag from her cigarette, her eyes never leaving yours. There wasn’t a smile, a nod, or any sign of acknowledgment. It was unsettling, yet strangely captivating.

You tried to focus on Linda, on the taste of the mojito, on the cityscape shimmering in the distance. But the weight of Gia’s gaze was a palpable thing, a physical presence that made your skin prickle. You felt like she was being dissected, her soul examined under a harsh, unforgiving light.

Linda, oblivious or perhaps intentionally ignoring the tension, launched into a funny anecdote about a photo shoot gone wrong. You forced yourself to laugh, but the sound felt hollow, dissonant in the charged atmosphere.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Gia shifted, the leather of the chaise squeaking. She stubbed out her cigarette in a chipped ashtray, the small act echoing in the relative silence.

"So," she said, her voice husky and low, like gravel rubbing against silk. "You're a fan."