They receive a gift from the client.

The evening light filtered through the studio blinds, staining the dressing room a sickly shade of orange. Elara awaited them with a smile that never reached her eyes; the air smelled of a mixture of expensive incense and predatory anticipation. Two black lacquer boxes rested upon a glass table.

"It is a gift from the client," Elara announced, opening the lids with a cruel deliberateness. "He wants elegance to be the frame of the experience. But he also wants the contrast: the caress of silk hiding the rawest of intentions."

Inside the boxes lay two raw silk kimonos, pale ivory in color, embroidered with silver dragons. Beside them were two minimal pieces of lingerie: black silk micro-thongs, barely three threads and a triangle of fabric so thin it was insulting.

Celia felt her stomach churn. The black micro-bikini from the rehearsal, as harsh as it had been, had become her battle armor—the only familiar thing she had left. Seeing this new garment, so delicate yet so explicit, reminded her that in this game, they didn't even have the right to habit.

"Take off the practice bikinis," Elara ordered. "Now."

Elara approached Magi first. With a sharp movement, she untied the side bows of the black micro-bikini. The piece fell to the floor like useless scrap. Magi did not cover herself; she didn't even blink. She stood there, static, as Elara slid the silk micro-thong over her hips. The fabric was soft, almost imperceptible, which made it far more terrifying: it didn't offer the firm resistance of Lycra, but the docility of something designed to be removed without effort.

"The silk says luxury; the black thong underneath says... absolute availability," Elara murmured, draping the kimono over her shoulders.

Magi nodded. She understood the function: the garment was no longer clothing; it was an invitation. She tied the kimono’s cord just below her navel, letting the silk fall open in a deep "V" that revealed the valley between her breasts and the dark trace of black silk vanishing between her thighs.

Celia, on the other hand, was trembling so much that Elara had to intervene. When they stripped her of the bikini, Celia let out a stifled gasp. She felt robbed of her final defense. The silk micro-thong felt liquid, dangerous—a mockery of her modesty.

"Lower your hands, Celia," Elara hissed, forcing the kimono onto her. "Don’t ruin the gift."

Celia’s knot was loose, clumsy. The kimono gaped with every shallow breath, showing the violent contrast of the black silk against her pale skin. She felt a thousand times more exposed than before. The practice bikini had been a cell; this silk was a display case.

They were led out. At the service entrance, a black car with tinted windows awaited them. The journey was an oppressive silence. Celia clung to the lapels of her kimono, feeling the micro-thong as an invisible but searing brand. Magi, conversely, leaned back against the leather seat, allowing the silk to fall open naturally, showing the long line of her leg and the suggestion of black against ivory. Her eyes were fixed on the city, but her mind was in the void.

The car stopped in front of a hotel of absolute discretion. A man in a tuxedo guided them through a side entrance to a private elevator that rose directly to the penthouse. The doors opened to a panoramic suite. The floor was dark marble, and the air was heavy with the scent of expensive tobacco and brandy.

In the center, upon a maroon velvet platform, stood the Client.

His face remained in shadow, but his gaze swept over them with predatory fixity. He absorbed every detail: the pale silk, Celia’s vulnerability, and Magi’s impassivity. His sight lingered, with an intensity that made them feel as if they were made of glass, on the delicate thread of black silk peeking from their waists—the last, fragile secret about to be claimed.