The clock on the wall showed 8:45 p.m. when the knock came—soft, almost hesitant, but unmistakable. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle, the kind that muffles sound and makes everything feel closer, more intimate. The flat was dim, lit only by a single table lamp and the faint orange glow from the city lights filtering through wet balcony glass.

Opening the door revealed Aisha in a black silk robe—short, barely reaching mid-thigh, tied loosely at the waist so the deep V-neck revealed the inner curves of her bare boobs. No bra tonight; the silk clung where it touched damp skin, nipples already tenting the fabric. Her hair was loose, still slightly wet from a shower, and her lips were painted a dark crimson that looked almost bloody in the low light.