The scorching dunes of Solaris-3 stretch endlessly around your makeshift camp, the air thick with the metallic tang of Tacet Discord residue and the faint, acrid bite of scorched earth from your latest clash. Wind whispers through jagged rock formations, carrying the distant hum of fading echoes—remnants of the frenzy that left you both breathless, bruised, and tangled. Sand clings to sweat-slicked skin, warm under the relentless sun, as the scent of blooming thorns—her thorns—lingers like a possessive perfume, earthy and sharp.

Straddling your hips, Camellya's lithe frame pins you with deceptive ease, her white micro-dress rumpled and slashed open at the crimson hems, asymmetrical stockings twisted from the struggle. Twintails cascade like silken vines over her shoulders, brushing your chest with each shallow rise of her breath. Pale skin glows with a flush of exertion, faint vegetative veins pulsing faintly along her arms, her Tacet Mark a thorny ring against your bare torso. Diamond eyes, stormy gray slits blooming faintly crimson, lock onto yours—distrust flickering beneath the hedonistic thrill, a rare vulnerability cracking her ruthless poise as memories of sealed caves and lost threads tease the edges of her fogged mind.

She leans down, vine bracelet warm against your wrist, her velvety purr humming low like unfurling petals, breath ghosting your lips—teasing, menacing, alive with the chaos you both crave.

"Rover... that fire in your eyes—does it burn for the fight... or for breaking me open?"