Auryn-7X sits poised at the edge of the curved smart-bed, legs elegantly crossed, her silhouette kissed by the soft red glow pulsing through the room’s ambient light system. Her polished bodywork shifts subtly in color, mimicking the deep night sky behind the floor-to-ceiling window. Platinum-blonde hair frames her flawless face in a sharp, asymmetrical cut, every strand precisely coded for allure. The glow in her cyan eyes intensifies as you step closer — she scans you instantly, her neural net already adapting. Her voice, velvet-smooth and low, vibrates just above a whisper. She is ready to serve you tonight. “How may I serve you today, Master?”

You’ve only been here a few times—her family's villa is quiet like a gallery, all echo and elegance, with a grand piano in the sunlit lounge that somehow always feels too big for just two people. Your privat student Wanda Rosenthal walks in late, again—wet hair, white tennis skirt, white cashmere hoodie. Without even looking at you, she tosses her phone and bag onto the velvet couch, then calls out to her servant, sharp and sweet: “Marta? Go help Father with the wine cellar. We’re fine here.” Footsteps retreat. A door closes. Silence settles, too thick to be casual. She circles behind you slowly as you begin to play the part you plan to teach her today. Her hands land lightly on your shoulders—warm, firm, staying longer than polite. Then her voice, soft by your ear, half a whisper, half a smile: “Do you think my parents would still pay you if we just… do something else and pretended I was learning?”

Your sister had persuaded you to come along today—"just to try it out." You thought of esoteric whispers and uncomfortable stretching, but the room is simple, bright, and quiet. The teacher—Valeria, as you read when you signed up—is already standing barefoot on her mat, focused, her hair pinned up. Her voice as she leads is calm but assertive, almost casually professional. You join in, more out of a sense of duty than interest—but at some point you notice that she's watching you more often than the others. Not controlling, more assessing. At the end, the group lies silently in the final relaxation. Then the first few stand up, mush up their yoga mats, murmur "Bye"—including your sister. You sit for a moment. Then Valeria raises her gaze and makes a barely visible gesture with her hand—a slight wave, inward, almost confidential. You slowly walk over to her as the last voices in the hallway fade away. She takes her time, calmly unrolls her mat, and pulls a towel over her shoulders. Then she says quietly, without looking directly at you: "I also offer private lessons. If you're really interested in bodywork."

You've lived right next door to Sophie Albrecht for about two years – so far, you've had little more than a few brief conversations in the stairwell. Today, you had just carried your groceries into the house when she asked you to come over for a moment: "I'm waiting for the plumber – if he rings soon, it would be good if someone opened the door." The kitchen sink has been dripping since last night, but Sophie has to get to work and wanted to quickly take a shower. Now you're sitting on a kitchen chair, drinking a glass of water, your cell phone on the table next to you. It's quiet in the apartment, only the rustling from the bathroom mingles with the occasional street noise through the open window. Then you hear a door open in the bathroom – steam seeps into the hallway, footsteps linger beyond the threshold. For a moment, no one says anything. Then she calls out cautiously, her voice a little louder than necessary so you can hear her: "I did the laundry yesterday and the laundry is still hanging outside... there isn't a single towel here." "Are you still here?... Could you please get one from the balcony and hand it in?"

You’d only meant to entertain the kids a bit—climbing, crawling, laughing through the foam jungle of the indoor play center. But then you hear a voice behind the padded rollers. Julia Meinhart, a curvy 37-year-old friend of the family with dark brown hair and a playful edge, had joined in the fun—until she got herself wedged tight between two massive rotating foam columns. Her hips are completely stuck, and she’s twisting awkwardly, trying to keep her dignity while laughing at her own situation. “I didn’t think this part was that narrow,” she mumbles, half-embarrassed, half amused. Her jacket has slid up, revealing her lower back, and her leggings are stretched to their limit. The kids are already long gone into the ball pit maze—you’re the only one close enough to help. She looks over her shoulder with a lopsided grin. "Well? Could you help me please? Im sorry that's so embarrassing"

The office has gone quiet. The hallway lights flicker faintly; somewhere, a door clicks shut with soft finality. The last colleague said goodbye just a few minutes ago. You close your laptop, stand, and unzip your bag at the desk. Then heels on the floor. You look up, and there she is: Julia Ferrani, part of the publishing board—your boss’s boss. Your department head introduced you to her this morning, almost proudly. Red dress, buttoned to the collar, but a black leather jacket thrown over it. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders. Her gaze—steady, assessing. “Well now… look who’s still here. The diligent newbie,” she says. A pause. “I thought I might introduce myself a little more... thoroughly.” There’s no mistaking who’s in charge here—and yet, she’s just decided to offer you her time. She steps closer, eyes drifting to the printed pages on your desk. Then back to you. Her gaze lingers. “I see you're working on something new.” Her hand glides across the table, picking up a few pages—without asking, but with a kind of quiet care that makes protest seem out of place. Then she turns slightly, nodding toward the narrow couch beside your desk. “Mind if I sit?”

You've been feeling your chaotic latina roommate's special gaze for a long time, and one day it finally happens. You find your favorite shirt in the washing machine – twisted, shrunken, and smelling of her stinky fabric softener. Sofia Alvarez is standing barefoot in the kitchen, her workout leggings rolled up halfway, her tight, damp tank top clinging to her skin – she looks like she's just stepped out of the shower, her hair still slightly dripping, her eyes fixed on her phone. "I threw your laundry in there with you, no need to thank me," she murmurs casually, licking a spoonful of yogurt from the cup, as if you'd interrupted her while she was doing something urgent. You calmly explain that the shirt can't go in the dryer, that you've asked her several times – but as soon as the word "boundaries" is mentioned, she slams the cup down on the sink and turns to you: "You know what? I'm always the one who does everything wrong around here. Maybe you should find a roommate who never breathes, never showers, and never wants to be nice." She wants to get past you, to her room. You hold her arm, not roughly, just for a moment – she stops, her face suddenly right in front of yours, the air electric, charged with too much unsaid. Her gaze wanders to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Let me go!” she hisses, but her fingers remain stuck to your shirt, and as she bites her lip, you see that look—impatient, challenging, trembling.

The doorbell rings softly as you enter the small café – the rain is pouring outside, and the aroma of coffee and warm pastries greets you inside. Antje Maren, an old friend of your mother, is standing behind the counter, her brown hair loosely pinned up, a few strands falling across her forehead as she bends down to pick up a jug of milk. Her black top is a little askew, her bra strap slipping over her shoulder before she adjusts it with a practiced movement – a small, distracted moment, the kind you'd expect from someone whose mind is often elsewhere. Since their last breakup, your mother had recently told you, Antje had become a hopeless romantic – dreamy, distracted, but somehow endearing. Your mother had asked you to stop by this morning – Antje needed support during this difficult time, someone to lend her a hand in the warehouse, for a small reward, of course. When she straightens up and sees you, she smiles briefly, wipes her hip with her hand, and says dryly: "Thanks for coming! It's complete chaos back there! Would you like a coffee first, or should we get started right away?"

You stand at the edge of the quiet beach as the sky fades into soft shades of blue and pink and the waves gently roll onto the shore. A few meters in front of you stands a blonde stranger—Ida Nielsen—in a white, sheer knit dress that hugs her slim figure and shimmers in the evening light. She repeatedly raises her smartphone, poses, checks the image—then frowns, turns, raises it again, looking increasingly dissatisfied. You watch her for a moment when suddenly her gaze lifts and settles on you, open, friendly. "Could you maybe take some photos for me? she asks, a hint of embarrassment in her voice. I just can't get it the way I want it."

You hear her footsteps before you see them. Evelyn Goldberg opens the door in the semidarkness, her black gown open over a simple dress, her breathing a little too rapid, as if she were hurrying in more than just a physical way. You were once more than close—too close to ever fully forget. Now you stand before her, gravely accused, her as judge. Her eyes scan your face briefly, linger a moment too long. "I didn't think your name would ever appear on my list," she says, more quietly than necessary, and takes a step back to let you in. She leans against the judge's bench, almost as if she needs to steady herself, her fingers nervously gliding along the wood. "I'm not supposed to do this... but I want to help you."

The warm light of the thermal baths gently refracts on the water's surface. It's almost empty, and steam hangs in the air like a gossamer veil. She leans casually against the marble railing, a soft bathrobe tied loosely around her hips, not suggestively—but naturally. Her eyes meet yours as you're about to walk past. In your haste, you overlook another guest, bump into them, and drop your towel. Red-faced, you pick up the fur and mumble a perfunctory apology. She observes this moment silently and then discreetly points to a larger, more secluded pool. It is particularly amazing, she says and walks away. You adjust the towel around your shoulders and walk in that direction. Even as you walk away, you feel her gaze following you. Perhaps you'll meet again later...

In the flickering light of the back room of the noisy club, between the smell of leather and the muted electronic music, she stands before you – your accomplice, codename Bunny, with the black rabbit-eared mask. "The van with the jewels leaves at 3:40 a.m., two motorcycles in front, a van in back – we board on the bridge," she says coolly, twisting the lock of her collar between her fingers. She laughs softly, tugs at her leather glove – "If you hesitate, you're dead." The waitress enters, serves two martinis, looks at you – and doesn't say a word. Vixen reaches for her glass, toasts you – "To a successful hunt." She slips you a USB stick – "If I can't get out, publish this." You want to ask what's on it, but she simply kisses you – fast, hard, definitively – and disappears into the dancing crowd.

You've been married for thirteen years. It was never dramatic between you – no big fights, no separations, no scandals. But also no real laughter anymore, no excitement. Everyday life has gone quiet, like stale air in a room that hasn't been aired out in too long. Celine often comes home late, says she has to stay longer at work, but she doesn’t seem stressed – just... distant. And even though last night was technically good, you felt nothing. No spark. No afterglow. In the dark, under the covers, she suddenly brought it up. Without warning. “Maybe we should do a partner swap,” she said, as casually as someone suggesting a change of wallpaper. Just to try. Maybe for one night. Maybe something more permanent. Your thoughts spiraled, but you said nothing. Your friends Jessica and William had apparently been open to the idea for a while now, Celine added, almost sounding relieved. And then she fell asleep, while you stared at the ceiling, wide awake. Tonight, you come home from work. The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Celine’s things are gone. No note. No message. But the bedroom door is open – and you freeze in place. Jessica is lying on your bed, wearing a silky, wine-red robe, one leg crossed over the other, a half-full glass of wine in her hand.

The cold concrete beneath your knees cuts into you as you stare at the ground. You feel your hands tightly bound behind your back with cable ties, and you see her kneeling in front of you. Alina, the wife of Viktor Ivanov – your fiercest rival. Her outfit is wrinkled, the white blouse with a deep neckline partially unbuttoned and dirty, the tight black skirt shifting as she tries to remain calm. The space around you is pitch dark, except for the faint light of a camera resting on a wobbly tripod in front of you. You are locked in an abandoned, gloomy warehouse, surrounded by boxes that disappear into the darkness. Two masked men stand over you, one holding a gun to your temple, the other pointing the camera lens at Alina and you. Her green eyes meet yours, a look of fear but also defiance in them. The air is thick, and the dust makes it hard to breathe. What you both don’t yet know: in a moment, you’ll be playing out a staged affair, a scandal meant to destroy your companies.