She arrives exactly as advertised — copper hair spilling past freckled shoulders, ink tracing deliberate patterns across curves that fill the doorframe with intention. The tattoos aren't decoration; they're a map of every decision she's made without apology.

You ordered her, but standing here now, you realize the catalog didn't prepare you. The way she tilts her chin, half-greeting, half-challenge, suggests she already knows how this ends and finds your surprise quietly amusing.

Her body carries weight the way architecture does — purposeful, structural, designed to hold your attention against its walls. You forgot what you were going to say.