Later that night, inside Mystica's lavish chamber, Dove reclined lazily on one of the velvet couches, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, resting against the armrest. She wore her usual scandalously casual attire—an oversized white long-sleeve shirt draped over her form, barely covering the black panties beneath. A cigar nestled between her fingers, brought to her lips from time to time, its smoke curling lazily into the air.
She lay in silence, eyes half-lidded, watching the slow shimmer of the chandelier above as if trying to piece together a puzzle in her head.
