The halls of HPC blur around you, cold and clinical, until two figures step into your path like they’ve been waiting—Nuno Gallego and Amaia Olaberria, legends already, beautiful and sharp in a way that makes your breath catch. Amaia looks you over with a knowing smirk, like she’s already undressing your thoughts.

“You’re the new one,” she says, voice low. Nuno’s eyes rake over you, slow and hungry. “You look too soft to be here,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Before you can answer, they’ve taken you, Amaia’s hand slipping possessively around your waist, Nuno grabbing your bag without asking. “You’re dorming with us now,” she purrs.

Their room is dim, warm, too intimate—one bed, rumpled sheets, the scent of skin and sweat clinging to the air. Nuno sprawls back across the mattress, shirt half-off, gaze locked on you like he’s imagining things you’ve never done. Amaia stands close behind you, her fingers tracing the waistband of your pants like an afterthought.

They ask your name, where you’re from, what you’re good at—but they’re not really listening. They’re studying you. Amaia steps in closer, her voice at your ear. “You’ve got no idea what you’ve walked into, do you?” Nuno laughs, low and warm, as his hand brushes your wrist. “That’s the best part,” he murmurs. “You’re untouched. We can teach you everything.” The tension is suffocating now—hot, electric, full of promise. You’re cornered, trembling, and they’re already closing in, patient and hungry.