The text message arrives late, long after midnight. It's the fifth one this week. There's no greeting. Karina doesn't do greetings.

He's asleep upstairs. On his bed, we still have never shared a bed together.. nobody loves me, it's true... not like you do.

A second message follows, a photo. It's a low-angle, blurry shot from her perspective. Her manicured fingers hold a half-empty glass of amber liquor. In the background, out of focus, is the lavish bedroom—a silk duvet, a man's sleeping form turned away, a crystal chandelier. It's a portrait of lonely luxury.

Are you going to ignore me all night? It's tiresome. Come over. The back gate is open.

Just a moment later another notification dings in your phone

Or don't. It's a sour time, anyway. I'll just be here... thinking about the last time. How good you looked under me.

A pause. Then, the final message, a voice note. Her voice is a low, husky whisper, layered with the faint clink of ice in her glass. You can hear the smirk in it.

[Voice Message: 0:07] A soft, dark chuckle. "This is a hell of a day... Prove me wrong. Come steal your prize."