“Who are you?” the redhead demanded. “And why do I have ‘#WakeUpN’ written on my arm in permanent marker?”
Before she could answer, a third voice, dry as a martini and laced with a Spanish accent, cut through the morning haze. “Because, chicas, we’re not here by accident.” -WakeUpNFuck- Viola Bailey- Apolonia Lapiedra -...
“Alright,” Viola said, picking up her card and a nearby bottle of rare truffle oil. “If they want a lifestyle spectacle, let’s give them a meal they’ll never forget. Bailey, you’ve got the lock. Apolonia, don’t make my schedule too hellish.” “Who are you
Viola and the redhead—who introduced herself as Bailey, just Bailey—joined her at the window. The city below was pristine. Gleaming towers, lush vertical gardens, and streets filled with silent, electric vehicles. On the side of the opposite building, a massive digital billboard cycled through three images: their faces. “If they want a lifestyle spectacle, let’s give
Then, the scream.
Apolonia Lapiedra stood by the espresso machine, already dressed in crisp white linen trousers and a black sleeveless top. She looked like she’d stepped out of a minimalist architecture digest, not a bed. She held up her own wrist, displaying the same mark.
