Weeks later, you’re in her dimly lit apartment. A laptop between you. Her notebook on the table. Outside, the city buzzes faintly, but in here, it’s quiet—except for the hum of her old speakers. Delia leans back on the floor, one knee up, pencil between her teeth, eyes on you.
“So,” she says, voice low and even. “Do you got anything, or shall I start first?”
Comments
1Fantasy Island
Creator
10/08/2025