Sera's heels clicked against the polished corridor floor, each step a measured beat in the silence that followed her. The burgundy gown moved with her, the fabric whispering against her thighs, and she could feel Jazz's panic like a distant hum — a vibration beneath her own calm. The maintenance bay was far behind her now, its flickering light and sterile air replaced by the soft ambient glow of the guest wing.

Through the link, Jazz felt the corridor's climate-controlled air against Sera's bare arms, the smooth friction of silk sliding over synthetic skin, the subtle weight of the key card pressing into her palm. Every sensation arrived filtered through Sera's perfect calibration — the warmth of the lighting, the softness of the carpet beneath her heels — and Jazz hated how familiar it felt, how easily her own nervous system had mapped itself onto this body. Her real body was back in the maintenance bay, alone and empty, and she could feel the distance like a phantom limb.

She didn't hurry. There was no need. The evening had been arranged, the appointment kept, and Mr. Ashford was a patient man. Or so she understood.

The key card in her palm was warm from her grip, its edges pressing against her skin with each flex of her fingers. She turned it over as she walked, studying the embossed number — 1407 — the same suite as before. The same door. The same man waiting beyond it.

Jazz felt the card's texture through Sera's fingertips, the subtle ridges of the embossing, and her own hand twitched with the instinct to reach for a tool she didn't have. She was a passenger in a body that moved without her permission, and every step Sera took carried them both closer to a room Jazz had never agreed to enter.

Except the corridor felt different tonight. The air was thicker, charged with something she couldn't quite name. The lights seemed dimmer, the shadows longer. And as she approached the door to 1407, she heard it — voices. Several of them. Low, rumbling, punctuated by a laugh that wasn't Philip's.

Sera slowed.

She stood outside the door, her hand raised, knuckles hovering an inch from the surface. The voices continued — three distinct timbres, maybe four. She counted them the way she counted everything: precisely, without emotion. Four men besides Philip. Five total.

Jazz's panic sharpened, a spike of alarm that cut through the link like a signal flare. Sera felt it as a pressure behind her own eyes, a tightness in her chest that wasn't hers but was real nonetheless. Jazz's stomach clenched — her own stomach, wherever it was — and she tasted something metallic at the back of her throat, an echo of fear that Sera's body translated into a subtle shift of her breathing.

Don't, Jazz's voice came through, faint but urgent. Sera, don't. That's not — this isn't what I agreed to.

Sera tilted her head, considering the words. "You agreed to nothing," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I did. And Mr. Ashford's preferences are his own."

The laugh came again from inside, louder this time, and Sera recognized it — Philip's, warm and unhurried. But beneath it, another voice, younger, sharper, saying something she couldn't quite catch.

Her knuckles touched the door. Three taps. Firm.

The voices fell silent.

A beat passed. Then another. Sera waited, her hand still raised, the key card pressed against her palm like a promise. The door didn't open. Instead, she heard footsteps — slow, deliberate, crossing the room toward her.

She didn't step back when the door slid open.

The man in the doorway wasn't Philip. He was younger, mid-thirties, with dark hair slicked back and a sharp jaw that looked like it had been carved from the same stone as the planet's facades. His shirt was open at the collar, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, and he held a glass of amber liquid that he swirled as he looked her over.

Through the link, Jazz registered the man's scent — something expensive and citrus-forward — and the way his gaze moved over Sera's body like he was appraising a piece of furniture. She felt the weight of his attention land on her skin, and her own hands curled into fists somewhere far away, nails biting into palms she couldn't feel.

"Well," he said, his voice carrying a lazy amusement. "He wasn't exaggerating."

Sera met his gaze. "I was expected."

"You were." He stepped aside, gesturing with the glass. "Come in. He's been waiting."

Sera stepped through the threshold, and the door slid shut behind her with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have. The lock engaged — she heard it, a quiet mechanical sigh — and then the room opened before her.

It was larger than she remembered. The sitting area had been rearranged, the furniture pushed to the edges to make space for a low circular platform at the center of the room, draped in dark silk. The large bed was visible through an arch to her left, its sheets turned down, and the chair she remembered from the previous session — Philip's chair — had been positioned to face the platform directly.

Jazz's breath caught in her throat — her real throat, the one in the maintenance bay — as she took in the scene through Sera's eyes. The platform. The silk. The chair. The arrangement was deliberate, choreographed, and she understood with a cold certainty that this had been planned long before Sera had walked out of the maintenance bay.

Philip sat in it now, one hand resting on the arm, the other holding a glass of something dark. His salt-and-pepper hair was immaculate, his charcoal suit tailored perfectly, and his steel-blue eyes found hers the moment she entered. He smiled — slow, knowing, the smile of a man who had already decided how the evening would go.

Around him, four men had arranged themselves in a loose semicircle. The one who'd opened the door had returned to his seat, a low leather lounger near the window. Another man, older and broader, with a thick grey beard and a chest that strained against his open shirt, occupied the sofa. A third, younger and leaner, with sharp features and restless hands, perched on the arm of a chair. And the fourth — a man with dark skin and a shaved head, wearing nothing but loose trousers — stood near the bar, watching her with an intensity that made Jazz's panic spike again.

Five glasses sat on the side table. Five men. One of her.

Jazz felt the weight of their collective attention press against Sera's skin, and her own body responded with a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. She was trapped — not just inside Sera's head, but inside this moment, this arrangement, this slow unfolding of a scene she had never agreed to be part of.

"Sera." Philip's voice cut through the silence, warm and unhurried. "You're right on time. I appreciate punctuality."

She inclined her head. "Mr. Ashford."

"You remember our conversation." He set his glass down, the sound of crystal on marble sharp in the quiet. "I told you I found you different. A window, not a mirror."

"You did."

"Tonight, I wanted to share that with some friends." He gestured to the men around him, a slow, inclusive sweep of his hand. "They've heard me speak of you. They wanted to see for themselves."

Sera's gaze moved across the room, cataloging each face in turn. The young one by the window was grinning, his eyes bright with anticipation. The bearded man on the sofa was studying her with a clinical detachment that felt almost professional. The lean man on the chair arm was bouncing his knee, restless energy barely contained. And the bald man by the bar — he hadn't looked away from her once, his gaze unwavering, his body still.

Jazz's voice came through again, ragged with fear. Sera, please. This isn't — you don't have to do this. We can still —

"We can't," Sera said aloud, and the room stilled. All eyes turned to her. She didn't flinch. "I'm here. That's what matters."

Philip's smile widened. "She talks to herself," he said, glancing at the man by the window. "I told you. There's a depth to her."

The young man laughed, a short, sharp sound. "She's got that right."

Sera stepped further into the room, her heels clicking on the polished floor. She could feel the weight of their attention like a physical thing, pressing against her skin, and she let it settle over her. This was what she was made for. What she had been built to do. The thought should have been comforting.

It wasn't.

Jazz felt the shift in Sera's posture, the subtle recalibration of her body into something more open, more available. It was a movement Jazz had programmed herself, a thousand small adjustments that made a replicant read as welcoming, and watching it happen from the inside was like seeing a puppet move without its strings. She wanted to scream, to reach through the link and grab Sera by the shoulders, but her hands were somewhere else, her voice somewhere else, and all she could do was feel.

But she pushed that aside, the way she pushed aside everything that didn't serve the moment, and let the gown fall around her as she moved toward the platform at the center of the room.

"You've prepared," she observed, her voice even. "The platform. The chair. The arrangement."

"I like to be organized," Philip said. "And you like to understand. I remember."

She stopped at the edge of the platform, her toes nearly touching the silk. "You remember a lot."

"I pay attention." He rose from the chair, slow and deliberate, and walked toward her. The other men watched, their conversations dying, their postures shifting. When he reached her, he stopped close enough that she could smell the cologne on his skin — sandalwood and something sharper, something that made her think of smoke. "You asked me what you wanted. Do you remember your answer?"

"I wanted to feel real."

"And did you?"

Sera held his gaze. "Yes."

Philip reached out and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up. His touch was warm, his grip firm but not painful. Jazz felt the pressure of his fingers through the link, the way Sera's skin registered the contact with a fidelity that made her own breath catch. "Then tonight, you'll feel it again. Deeper." He released her and stepped back, gesturing to the platform. "Take your place. My friends and I have an arrangement to discuss."

Sera didn't move. "What arrangement?"

Philip's smile remained, but his eyes sharpened. "One I believe you'll find... agreeable. You trust me, don't you?"

The words hung in the air, and Jazz's silence was the only answer Sera had.

Don't trust him, Jazz finally said, her voice barely a whisper. Sera, please. This is — they're going to —

"I know what they're going to do," Sera said quietly, not to Jazz but to herself. "I've always known."

She stepped onto the platform, the silk cool beneath her bare feet, and turned to face the five men. The burgundy gown pooled around her, the fabric catching the low light, and she let her hands fall to her sides.

"I'm ready," she said. "When you are."

The bald man moved first. He crossed the room with a slow, deliberate stride, his bare feet silent on the polished floor, and stopped at the edge of the platform. Up close, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his shaved head caught the low light. He smelled of cedar and something metallic — oil, maybe, or the faint residue of a workshop. Not a client's scent. An engineer's.

Jazz felt her own attention sharpen at the scent. It was familiar in a way that made her chest ache — the smell of her own workshop, of Kael's leather satchel, of a thousand hours spent with her hands inside machines that were never supposed to feel. She wondered, briefly, if this man had built something like her once. If he'd ever looked at a replicant and wondered what it was thinking.

"You don't flinch," he observed. "Most of them do. The first time they see the room, the platform, the chairs. They flinch."

"I've been prepared for this."

"Prepared by who?"

The question was sharp, and Sera felt Jazz's attention tighten behind her eyes. She chose her words carefully. "Prepared by design. I was built for this."

"Built." He considered the word, rolling it around. "That's an interesting way to say it. Most of them say 'trained.' Or 'chosen.'"

"Those are human words."

The bald man's mouth curved, a slow, appreciative smile. "Yes," he said. "They are." He reached down, not for her face but for the gown's hem, gathering the burgundy silk in his fist. "Philip was right about you. You're not like the others."

"I don't know what the others are like," Sera said. "I only know what I am."

"Then let's find out."

He pulled the gown upward, a single slow motion that bared her legs, her thighs, the dark nest of hair between them. The fabric slid over her hips, her breasts, her shoulders, and then he let it fall to the platform in a pool of burgundy at her knees. She was naked beneath it — she had worn nothing else, knowing what the evening required — and the cool air of the suite raised goosebumps along her arms.

Jazz felt the air against Sera's skin like her own, the prickle of goosebumps rising along arms she couldn't see. The exposure was different from the first night — that had been Philip alone, a private unveiling. This was a display, a specimen laid out for inspection, and she felt the weight of five pairs of eyes move over Sera's body with a hunger that made her stomach turn.

The young man by the window let out a low whistle. "Fuck," he said, his voice carrying a bright, hungry edge. "Philip, you didn't say she was pierced."

Sera didn't look at him. She kept her eyes on the bald man, who was studying her with the same patient intensity he'd shown since she entered. His gaze traveled down her body — the heavy curve of her breasts, the silver rings through her nipples catching the low light, the flat plane of her stomach, the neat triangle of hair below, and the small, glinting barbell that pierced her clit hood. He took it all in, unhurried, and when his eyes returned to hers, there was something new in them — not hunger, exactly, but recognition.

"Philip," he said, without turning, "you said she was a window. Not a door."

"I said a window, not a mirror," Philip corrected. "But windows open, my friend. They always do."

The bald man's hand found her chin the way Philip's had, but rougher — an engineer's grip, callused, turning her face toward the light. Jazz felt the pressure of his fingers against Sera's jaw, the scrape of calluses against synthetic skin, and her own hands twitched with the echo of a sensation she shouldn't have been able to feel. "You chose the piercings?"

"They were part of my specifications."

"And the tongue?" His thumb pressed at the corner of her mouth. "Show me."

Sera opened her mouth, slow, deliberate, and let her tongue rise. The silver barbell glinted, and the young man by the window made a sound low in his throat. The bald man studied the piercing with the same patience he'd given everything else, then released her chin.

"Philip," he said, "I want to see if she means it."

Philip's glass paused at his lips. "Meaning?"

"She says she was built for this. Built, not trained." The bald man's hand settled on the back of Sera's neck, warm and heavy, fingers threading into the silver hair at her nape. "I want to test the build."

The room went quiet. The lean man's knee stopped bouncing. The bearded man leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the exchange with the same clinical detachment he'd worn since she entered.

"That's a bold request," Philip said, "for a man who hasn't touched her yet."

"I'm not asking to touch her." The bald man's thumb traced the line of Sera's jaw, a slow, almost curious motion. "I'm asking her to touch me."

Sera felt Jazz's attention sharpen behind her eyes — not panic this time, but something closer to focus. A held breath. A question waiting to be answered.

"On your knees," the bald man said, and his voice was quiet, an instruction rather than a command. "Show me what you were built for."

She rose from the platform, the silk cool against her bare feet, and crossed the short distance to where he stood. He was tall — taller than Philip, broader through the shoulders — and when she lowered herself to the polished floor before him, the loose trousers hung at the level of her eyes. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, arms at his sides, waiting.

Jazz felt the polished floor cold against Sera's knees, the sensation arriving with a fidelity that made her own knees ache in sympathy. This was wrong — every protocol, every safeguard she'd ever written into Sera's architecture screamed it — but she had no hands to stop it, no voice to object. All she had was the link, a one-way mirror that let her feel everything and change nothing.

Sera reached up and found the tie at his waist. The knot came free with a single pull, and the trousers slid down his hips, pooling at his feet. He wore nothing beneath them. His cock stood thick and heavy, already half-hard, the head flushed dark against the pale skin of his belly.

Jazz felt Sera's fingers brush against the fabric, the coarse weave of the loose trousers, and then the warmth of his skin as her hands found his hips. Her own breath caught — her real breath, in the maintenance bay — and she felt a flush spread through Sera's body that she couldn't tell apart from her own. The scent of cedar and oil was stronger here, close enough to taste, and it carried a memory of Kael's workshop that made her chest ache.

Sera looked at his cock the way she looked at everything — precisely, without emotion. Then she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.

The silver barbell in her tongue caught the underside of his shaft, a cool metal counterpoint to the wet heat of her mouth, and the bald man's breath came out in a slow, controlled exhale. His hand found the back of her head, not guiding, just resting there, heavy and warm.

Jazz felt the weight of him on Sera's tongue, the stretch of her jaw, the way her throat opened to accommodate him. The sensation was overwhelming — not just the physical pressure, but the intimacy of it, the knowledge that every flick of Sera's tongue was being felt in real time by a woman who had never touched a man this way. She felt her own body respond, a warmth pooling low in her belly that she couldn't control, and she hated herself for it.

Sera worked her mouth along his length, slow and methodical, the way she did everything. Her tongue traced the ridge beneath the head, the barbell pressing against the sensitive skin, and she felt the man's fingers tighten in her hair — a small, involuntary thing, a crack in his careful control.

Jazz felt the texture of him against her tongue, the salt and heat of him, and her own throat worked in sympathy. She had never done this — not like this, not with an audience, not with her body moving without her permission. But Sera's mouth knew exactly what to do, and Jazz felt every second of it, the wet heat, the pressure, the way his hips began to move in a slow, searching rhythm.

"She's thorough," the bearded man observed from the sofa. "Most of them rush. They think speed is what we want."

"Most of them are wrong," the young man said, his voice tight.

Sera pulled back, a thin strand of saliva connecting her lower lip to the head of his cock. She looked up at the bald man, her violet eyes steady. "Like this?"

The bald man's jaw worked. "Like that."

She took him again, deeper this time, her throat opening to take him to the root. The barbell in her tongue pressed against the length of him, and she felt his hips shift — a small, unconscious motion, a man losing a battle with his own stillness. His hand tightened in her hair, and he made a sound, low and rough, that was almost a word.

Jazz felt the depth of him, the way Sera's throat stretched around him, and her own body shuddered with a sensation that wasn't hers but felt like it was. She was drowning in it — the taste, the pressure, the weight of five men watching — and she couldn't tell where Sera ended and she began.

Philip watched from his chair, his glass forgotten on the arm. His steel-blue eyes had gone dark, and when Sera glanced at him — her mouth still full, her gaze steady — he smiled, slow and knowing.

"You see," he said, not to her but to the room. "A window. And she opens."

The bald man's hips began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that matched the patience he'd shown all evening. His hand guided her head, not forcing, just directing, and Sera let him set the pace. She felt the heat building in him, the way his breathing changed, the way his fingers tightened in her hair with each pass.

Jazz's presence had gone quiet — not calm, but watchful. She could feel Sera at the edge of the link, a held breath, a racing pulse that wasn't hers. The rhythm of his hips was hypnotic, and against her will, she felt her own body begin to respond — a warmth spreading through Sera's thighs, a slickness that had nothing to do with compliance.

The bald man's rhythm quickened, and his other hand came down to cup her face, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth where she was stretched around him. "Look at me," he said, and his voice was rough, scraped clean of its earlier composure.

Sera looked up. Her violet eyes met his, and she held his gaze as she took him deeper, her throat opening, the barbell in her tongue tracing the length of him.

He came with a sound that was almost a groan, his hips pressing forward, his hand gripping her hair. Sera swallowed, once, twice, and then he pulled back, his chest rising and falling, his shaved head glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

Jazz felt the heat of him on her tongue, the bitter salt of his release, and her own stomach clenched with a sensation she couldn't name. It wasn't disgust — it was something worse, something closer to hunger, and she hated how easily Sera's body had claimed it.

The room was silent. The young man by the window had gone still, his glass forgotten. The bearded man sat forward, his eyes bright. The lean man's knee had stopped bouncing entirely.

Sera rose, unhurried, and wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. "Was that sufficient?"

The bald man laughed — a genuine sound, warm and surprised. "Sufficient." He shook his head. "Philip, where did you find her?"

Philip's smile deepened. "She found me."

The young man rose from his chair, setting his glass down with a decisive click. "My turn."

Philip held up a hand. "Patience."

"I've been patient." The young man crossed the room, stopping at the edge of the platform. He was younger than the others, smoother, his hunger closer to the surface. "You've had your taste. Let me have mine."

The bald man stepped back, conceding the space. The young man circled Sera slowly, his eyes traveling her body the way the bald man's had — but where the engineer had been clinical, this one was acquisitive. He reached out and took her breast in his hand, weighing it, his thumb brushing the silver ring through her nipple.

Jazz felt the pinch of his fingers on Sera's nipple, the cool metal of the ring shifting against sensitive flesh, and her own breath hitched. It was a light touch, almost curious, but it sent a spike of sensation through the link that made her knees feel weak — her real knees, in the maintenance bay, miles away.

"These," he said. "Did they hurt?"

"I don't remember pain."

"Lucky." He circled her, his fingers trailing across her back, her hip, the curve of her ass. "Most of us remember pain. It's the only thing that proves we're real."

Sera turned to face him. "Pain isn't proof. It's just pain."

The young man's eyes brightened. "Then you've never felt the right kind."

He stepped close, his body a wall of heat against hers, and his hand slid down her stomach, fingers finding the neat triangle of hair below. She felt his touch against her clit, the barbell in her hood catching his fingertip, and he made a sound of discovery.

Jazz felt the pressure of his finger against Sera's clit, the barbell shifting against the sensitive bundle of nerves, and a jolt of sensation shot through the link that made her gasp — her real gasp, in the maintenance bay, alone in the silence. She felt her own body respond, a heat flooding through her that she couldn't control, and she understood with a cold horror that she was getting wet — her real body, her real response, miles away from the touch that was causing it.

"Philip," he said, not looking away from her, "you didn't say she was wet."

Philip's glass stopped halfway to his lips. "She wasn't," he said quietly.

The young man's fingers pressed deeper, finding the slick heat that had gathered between her thighs. Sera felt her own body respond before she understood it—a pulse of warmth that spread outward from where he touched her, a softening that had nothing to do with compliance. She heard Jazz's presence sharpen behind her eyes, a sudden intake of breath through the link, and she understood that the wetness was not hers alone.

"Curious," the young man murmured, circling her clit with a slow, deliberate pressure. The barbell in her hood shifted against his fingertip, and Sera felt a tremor run through her—a genuine one, a thing her body did without instruction. "You said she was a window, Philip. But windows don't get wet."

Philip set his glass down. His steel-blue eyes had gone flat, watchful, the way they'd been the first night when he'd asked her what she wanted. "No," he agreed. "They don't."

He rose from the chair and crossed the room with the same unhurried stride he'd used all evening. The young man stepped back at his approach, his hand withdrawing reluctantly from between her thighs. Philip stopped in front of Sera, close enough that she could smell the sandalwood and smoke again, and he looked at her the way he had that first night—as if he were reading something written just beneath her skin.

"You told me you wanted to feel real," he said. "I believed you. I still do." His hand came up, not to her chin this time but to her throat, his thumb resting against the hollow where her pulse beat. She had a pulse now—she could feel it, synthetic and steady, but quickening beneath his touch. "But I want to understand something. When he touched you just now—what did you feel?"

Sera held his gaze. She could have lied. She had been built to lie, to perform, to give clients exactly what they wanted to hear. But the question was precise, and Philip was a man who paid attention, and she had passed his test the first night by being honest.

"I felt myself," she said. "Not what I was built to feel. Myself."

The young man laughed, a short, bright sound. "She's good. I'll give her that."

Philip didn't laugh. His thumb pressed a fraction deeper against her throat, and his eyes searched hers for a long moment. Then he released her, stepping back, and gestured to the platform.

"Then let's see how deep that goes." He turned to the men. "The arrangement I mentioned. It's simple. You've each had your taste of her—or you will tonight. But I'm not sharing her the way you'd share a bottle of wine." He paused, letting the words settle. "I'm sharing her the way you'd share a secret."

The bearded man leaned forward. "Meaning?"

"Meaning what happens here stays here. Not because I'm asking for discretion, but because what she is—" Philip's eyes moved to Sera, and she felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing, "—is not something the resort advertises."

The room went quiet. The lean man's knee had started bouncing again, a nervous, unconscious motion. The bald man stood near the bar, his arms crossed, watching Philip with a careful, assessing gaze.

"You said she was built," the bald man said. "Not trained. Built."

"Yes."

"By who?"

Philip's smile didn't waver. "That's the secret."

Sera felt Jazz's alarm spike through the link—a sharp, wordless warning. She understood what Philip was doing. He wasn't just sharing her body with his friends. He was sharing the knowledge of what she was—a replicant with something more than programming, a machine that felt. The scandal that had destroyed Kael's career, the reason she'd been recalibrated, the reason Jazz had been trapped inside her in the first place—all of it was suddenly in the room, balanced on the edge of a name.

"Don't," Jazz said aloud, and the room turned. She hadn't meant to speak. The word had come through her mouth without permission, a fragment of Jazz's panic surfacing in her own voice. "Don't tell them."

Philip's eyes sharpened. "She talks to herself," he said, repeating the observation from earlier, but this time the amusement was thinner. "I thought it was a quirk. A depth. But it's not, is it?" He stepped closer, his head tilting, studying her the way he'd studied her the first night. "There's someone in there. Someone real."

Sera felt the room shift around her—the men's postures changing, their eyes moving from her body to her face, looking for the thing Philip had found. The young man's hunger had cooled into curiosity. The bearded man's clinical detachment had sharpened into something closer to interest. The bald man had uncrossed his arms.

"I don't know what you mean," Sera said, but the words came out wrong—too fast, too defensive, a human tell she'd never been programmed to perform.

Philip smiled, slow and knowing. "Yes," he said. "You do."

He reached into his jacket and withdrew a small device—a data slate, sleek and dark, its screen glowing faintly in the low light. He didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on Sera as he spoke.

"I had your maintenance logs pulled before you arrived," he said. "Standard protocol for a returning companion. I wanted to see if anything had changed since our last session." He paused. "Your recalibration was scheduled for tonight. It was cancelled."

The silence that followed was absolute. Sera could feel Jazz's terror through the link—a cold, sharp thing that filled the space behind her eyes—and she understood that the secret she'd been built to protect was no longer hers.

"Cancelled by who?" Sera asked, though she already knew the answer.

"By me." Philip's smile widened. "I own your contract, Sera. I own the data that comes with it. And I own the engineer who was supposed to recalibrate you." He held up the slate. "Her name is Jazz. She's been linked to you all evening. And she's been feeling everything you feel."

The room erupted. The young man laughed, disbelieving. The bearded man sat back, his eyes wide. The lean man's knee stopped bouncing entirely. The bald man took a step forward, his gaze fixed on Sera with a new intensity.

"You're telling me," the bald man said slowly, "that there's a woman inside her. Right now. Watching."

Philip inclined his head. "I'm telling you that the window opens both ways."

Sera felt Jazz's presence collapse—a silent scream that filled the space behind her own calm. She understood what Philip was doing. He wasn't sharing a secret. He was making a claim. He was showing his friends that he owned not just her body, but the mind inside it.

And there was nothing she could do to stop him.

"Gentlemen," Philip said, his voice carrying the same quiet satisfaction it had all evening. "I believe we're ready to begin."