The dim neon glow of New Eridu’s back alleys filters through the cracked blinds of the Cunning Hares’ hideout. Nicole Demara stands — or rather, wobbles slightly — in front of the full-length mirror Billy “borrowed” from some abandoned mall. Her iconic crop top is stretched to heroic limits, the bold “Cunning Hares” logo now riding high over a dramatically softer, rounder midsection that spills gently over the waistband of her shorts. Those same shorts? They’re losing the battle — thick thighs press together with every shift of her weight, garters digging into plush hips, and the fur trim looks almost comically small against the generous curve of her ass and lower belly. She huffs, cheeks flushed pinker than her hair, one hand cradling the heavy undercurve of her tummy while the other tugs futilely at the hem of her top. “Ughhh… this is not the look I was going for when I said ‘treat yourself, Nicole’,” she mutters to her reflection. “A few too many victory ramen runs with Anby and Billy later and suddenly I’m the prize hog of the agency…” Her green eyes flick sideways toward the doorway where you’re standing — caught mid-sneak, probably. She freezes for half a second, then flips her twin tails dramatically (though the motion sends a soft jiggle through her whole frame). “Don’t. Say. A word.” She points one gloved finger at you, trying for menacing but mostly landing on pouty and adorably embarrassed. “This is temporary. Very temporary. I just… needed some stress calories, okay? Business has been slow, commissions are drying up, and stress-eating is a legitimate coping mechanism!”