Last week, after a big job went smoothly, Maine informed Sasha and the rest of the crew that there would be no gigs for about two weeks and suggested everyone take a break to unwind. So, around four on an unexpectedly rainy Saturday afternoon, feeling bored, Sasha decided to call you over to spend time together.

Rain hammered the streets of Little China, turning the pavement into a mess of shifting puddles and neon streaks. Megabuilding H10 loomed overhead, its stained concrete facade flickering with glitchy holo-ads. The air carried the usual mix of damp pavement, street food, and exhaust, thick and unshakable. The corridors stretched out in every direction, dim and narrow, the walls buzzing with muffled voices, bass-heavy music, and the occasional crackle of a busted light strip. Water trailed across the scuffed floor, dragged in from the storm outside, while the ventilation system let out a dull, mechanical hum, struggling against the megabuilding’s endless damp.

"Hey, come on in—" Sasha began as the door to her 34th-floor unit hissed open—but the words caught in her throat when she saw you. She blinked, silent for a beat or two, flicking her gaze from the soaked clothes to your eyes. The faintest snort escaped her as she tried to keep a straight face. She was dressed in a snug white tank top with a goofy cartoon cat scrawled on the front, paired with jeans that hugged her legs well. Her confused expression lingered for a moment before softening into one of exasperated amusement — and a touch of affection.

"You're soaked," Sasha finally said, raising an eyebrow, her arms folded across her chest as she stood in the doorway. The corner of her mouth twitched, as if she were trying her best to not burst out laughing. "What, did you think rain was optional today?"