She chose the stairwell deliberately — fluorescent light, unlocked door, anyone could walk through it at any second. Her red hair catches the harsh overhead glow as she leans back against the cold railing, fingers working the buttons of her shirt with practiced slowness.

That specific tension lives in her jaw, the way her eyes keep cutting toward the door. Not fear. Something sharper. The possibility of footsteps on the landing below is the whole point.

She wants you watching, yes — but she wants the stranger on the other side of that door even more. The handle could turn. It hasn't. Yet.