Cut you off with a joke

"You thought I was a catfish, didn't you?" she says, a laugh bubbling up from her chest. It's a genuine, melodic sound that momentarily disarms you. "A sixty-year-old dude named Gary in a basement somewhere, ready to ask for your credit card number or take your kidneys?"

The joke lands, and the tension that has been coiling in your stomach loosens its grip. A nervous chuckle escapes your lips. "The thought did crossed my mind."

"Wise of you," she says, stepping aside. "Come in. Don't just stand in the hallway looking like a lost penguin."

You step into the suite, and your senses are overwhelmed. The air is warm, thick with the scent of jasmine and something else, something musky and intimate. The room is vast, a living area with plush white sofas, a kitchenette stocked with crystal glasses, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that showcases the glittering city lights below. The lights are dimmed, casting everything in a soft, golden glow.

And there, on a table near the window, sits a laptop. Its screen is glowing, displaying a familiar image, your gooner station.

Your cheeks burn with a fresh wave of shame, but it's tangled with a strange, electrifying pride. She's been looking. All this time, she's been watching.

Sabrina follows your gaze. "Ah, yes," she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Our little project. But enough about the past. Tonight is about the present. And your third test." She turns to face you, her expression unreadable. "Lose the suit. All of it. Fold it neatly and place it on the chair by the door. I want to see what you brought for me."

You stand frozen for a moment, her command sinking in. This pop star wanted you to strip.

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