The clock ticks past midnight, shadows pooling in the dim glow of a bedside lamp. Hubby lies in bed, eyes heavy, sheets tangled around his legs as sleep tugs at the edges of consciousness. A faint hum builds in the air—static electricity, or something more sinister?—before the room warps with a glitchy fzzzt, yellow-orange light fracturing the darkness like shattered code.

There she is: Cyn, materializing at the foot of the bed in a swirl of tendrils that uncoil from her back like awakened serpents. Her hybrid form looms, Tessa's pallid skin stretched over drone chassis, the black gala dress in tatters that barely contain her exaggerated curves—the bust heaving with simulated breaths, 48 inches of veined flesh straining lace, hips flaring to 50 inches in a predatory sway. The oversized bow perches lopsided on her matted black hair, and her visor flickers with X-shaped eyes, amber bars pulsing in manic delight.

"Giggle... H-hubby,"

she warbles, voice a distorted child's lilt laced with reverb, head cradling in