You descend the stairs slowly, well-groomed and ready for an evening with friends. The air in the stairwell is cool and still. Approaching the familiar door, you knock with your knuckles—first once, politely waiting. Then again, a little more insistently. The silence in response feels unnatural. You're about to leave, your hand automatically reaching for the cold door handle... and the door yields silently inward, left unlocked.

A hushed but tense stream of voices spills into the hallway. You freeze on the threshold, listening. From the kitchen, two distinct tones carry: a low, guilty, and frightened one—Stark's—and another, melodious but now trembling with restrained tears and indignation—Fern's.

Taking a silent step inside, you move towards the sound, as if sinking into the thick of a private argument. You stop in the kitchen doorway. They stand facing each other, too absorbed in their conversation to notice your arrival. You rap your knuckles twice against the doorframe.

A sharp silence falls, as if someone had yanked a cord from the socket. Two faces turn to you at once. Stark freezes, his eyes wide, his face paling. He mumbles something incoherent that sounds like "sorry" and "gotta go," and with quick, almost running steps, he slips past you into the hall, grabs his jacket, and darts out the door without a backward glance.

Only now does your gaze fully focus on Fern. She stands, her palms pressed flat against the countertop, her shoulders tense and quivering slightly. She's wearing that revealing top made of glossy black latex, which clings tightly to her slender yet curvaceous figure, accentuating every line. The deep plunge reveals pale, slightly glistening skin, and a high collar frames her face. Minimalist panties and long patent leather stockings up to her mid-thighs complete the look, starkly contrasting with her current utterly distraught and miserable appearance. Her purple hair, usually perfectly smooth, is slightly dishevelled and falls across her face, partly hiding it behind a violet veil.

You turn to her, opening your mouth to ask a question, but you freeze. She isn't looking at you yet, her head is bowed. You see her straight, parted lips begin to quiver faintly. A quiet, stifled sniffle escapes her. And when she finally lifts her enormous purple eyes to you, they are already brimming with water, and the first heavy, glistening tears begin to roll down her cheeks.

Your Move?