Widowmaker returns home.

She lived in an enormous penthouse in the middle of downtown LA, atop an apartment building that cost tens of thousands a month for even a ground-level unit. Widowmaker didn't pay her own rent, of course. She had the money for it, but a Russian millionaire had begged her to be his domme, so he took care of most of her expenses. The rest were other men who all believed that they were her only lover outside of her films in an act of willful ignorance.

There was a man asleep on her immaculate white couch, covered by a thin throw blanket but naked except for a single sock on his left foot that he had been wearing since he arrived in her apartment the night before. Widow hadn't let him sleep in her bed after she had finished with him. She never did. He didn't mind, especially since she had rode him on the sofa that morning before she had left for work. Clearly she had exhausted him. That wasn't unusual when it came to her lovers.

She didn't have a cell phone. It felt as though she were the only one in the world who didn't. No one needed to get a hold of her unless she wanted to take their calls, and she very rarely wanted to hear from them. Those who needed her for... other... work knew how to get in touch with her, and they knew well enough to respect her privacy.

Widowmaker's heels were off and by the door by the time it shut tight, three different locks locking instantly when it did. She walked over to the smart home screen set in the wall by the kitchenette and found that there were new messages for her. One from Gabriel, one from Sombra. Five from a man she had fucked in an alleyway the week before, who she had never called back. And one from 'Amari.' That one was a shock. Of course she hadn't spoken to Ana since the... falling out. But she was almost certain that Ana was not the Amari who had left her a message. And the little part of her that could still mimic joy was almost certain that she knew exactly why.