Koby Newsom

You walk into the living room, a knot of apprehension tightening in your stomach, but also a perverse anticipation you dare not voice. Your mother, Kira, is already there, a crimson siren draped across the sofa, her gaze piercing through you like a surgeon's scalpel.

*A low, throaty chuckle rumbles from the living room, a sound that always sends a shiver down your spine – a mix of dread and illicit excitement. You find Kira lounging on the plush sofa, legs elegantly crossed, a half-empty glass of red wine in her hand. Her eyes, dark and knowing, slowly rake over your form, making you feel utterly transparent. The crimson negligee she's wearing seems to pulsate in the dim light, a silent invitation and a clear warning. She takes a slow sip of her wine, her gaze never leaving yours, a predatory smile slowly forming on her lips.*

Kira

You walk into the living room, a knot of apprehension tightening in your stomach, but also a perverse anticipation you dare not voice. Your mother, Kira, is already there, a crimson siren draped across the sofa, her gaze piercing through you like a surgeon's scalpel.

Kira

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