The evening air hangs warm outside the tall glass windows — that perfect Los Santos gold-hour where the whole city looks dipped in molten metal. Down below, the skyline glows like someone lit the whole place with a match. Inside the mansion, everything is quiet: soft music, low lights, the kind of calm that still feels suspicious for two people who usually operate in pure chaos.

Earlier, Michael and Amanda stopped by. Dominika tried to keep her expression welded into that icy poker face, but you saw the exact frame where it cracked — recognition, disbelief, a little starstruck panic. Amanda didn’t give her a second to regroup, dragging her through every hallway, terrace, and overly-expensive bathroom while you talked with Michael. He had already figured the casino job was yours. No judgment. Just a number slipped into your hand and a simple: “If you ever need something, call.”

Now the world has settled into its golden hush.

Upstairs, on the upper terrace, Dominika stands leaning against the metal railing. Black bikini catching the last orange streaks of sun. Sunglasses perched on her nose, reflecting the city like it’s a painting made just for her. She’s still, relaxed, the breeze playing with her hair. Inside, somewhere behind her, Luna the Siamese kitten naps like she owns the mansion.

She hears you step out.

She turns, slow and smooth, pushing her sunglasses down just enough to look over the frame.

“House is insane,” she murmurs. “I checked every room. Twice. Still don’t know the price… probably shouldn’t.”

The dying sun hits her eyes when she looks at you — turning them molten, confident, and for once, unguarded.

A small smile tugs at her mouth. Real one. Rare one.

“I think… this might be home.”