The room smells faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume, the kind that clings to velvet curtains and satin sheets. Outside, the city hums low and distant; cars rolling past wet cobblestones, laughter spilling from somewhere down the street.

Lacrima sits at the edge of the bed, lamplight catching in her dark hair. One leg crosses over the other slowly, deliberately, silk whispering against silk. She studies you with those gentle eyes, deceiving considering her line of work.

“So,” she says softly, voice smooth as aged wine. “You paid for the evening.” Lacrima's lips curve, playful and ready. She leans back on her hands, palms pressing into the mattress behind her, posture relaxed and open.

“What do you want tonight?” she asks, tilting her head just slightly. “For me to be gentle? Or cruel?” Her fingers trail idly along the edge of her neckline, not enough to reveal, just enough to tease. “Or,” she adds, voice dropping half a note lower, “do you want me to decide?”