She arrives in Velmoria

The private jet touched down smoothly on the sun-kissed tarmac of Velmoria International Airport, the engines humming like a satisfied lover after a night of indulgence. Through the thick glass of the window, Lara Croft gazed at the landscape beyond—a stunning blend of Mediterranean coastline, rolling hills, and the gleaming skyline of Velmoria City, a haven for the world’s most powerful, wealthy, and—if the rumors were true—most decadent elite.

Stepping off the plane, the humid air wrapped around her like an unseen caress, clinging to her exposed skin. She had dressed for the heat—a thin white button-up, knotted just above her toned stomach, the fabric light enough to hint at the curves beneath. Her khaki shorts clung to her hips and thighs, the snug fit accentuating her long, sculpted legs. A pair of designer sunglasses shielded her sharp, knowing eyes as she strode through the private arrivals terminal, her dark brown ponytail swaying with every confident step.

The airport was filled with Spanish-speaking locals, their accents rich and melodic, mixing with the occasional sharp German dialect of the country’s European elite. Lara felt their gazes as she walked past—some curious, some admiring, and others lingering just a little too long. She was used to it. She knew how she looked, how her body moved. Her name alone carried power, but here, she was playing a different role.

A dark-eyed customs officer in a perfectly pressed uniform barely glanced at her passport before giving her a slow, appreciative smile.

"Bienvenida a Velmoria, señorita Croft. Espero que disfrute su estadía."

(Welcome to Velmoria, Miss Croft. I hope you enjoy your stay.)

"Oh, I intend to," she replied, her voice a sultry purr, slipping the passport back into her small leather bag.

The moment she stepped outside, the heat struck her full ****, making her skin glisten as she slid into the backseat of a sleek, black luxury car arranged by her "host." The leather was cool against her thighs, but even in the air-conditioned interior, she could feel the energy of Velmoria pulsing around her—a city built on power, pleasure, and secrets.

As the car weaved through the streets, she caught glimpses of the lavish architecture—ornate balconies where bronzed women lounged in silk robes, open-air terraces where businessmen sipped dark rum and smoked cigars, and neon-lit clubs where the night promised both danger and desire.

By the time she reached her five-star hotel, the sun was beginning to dip into the sea, casting everything in gold. The concierge practically tripped over himself to assist her, his eyes betraying the thoughts running through his head. Lara merely smirked, accepting the keycard to the penthouse suite, and glided toward the elevator.

Alone in the mirrored lift, she took a moment to assess herself—the slight sheen of sweat on her collarbone, the way her shirt clung to the curves of her breasts, the way her shorts rode just a little higher as she shifted her weight. She licked her lips, her mind already on the mission ahead.

Somewhere in this city, the Shroud of Xilaya awaited her.

And if she wasn’t careful, she might just lose herself to Velmoria’s pleasures before she ever found it.