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Soft music filled the space, blending with the warm glow of the lamps, the lazy spin of the ceiling fans, and the scent of vanilla that hung in the air like a constant reminder — this place was made for relaxation.
— Can you look me in the eyes? — Lana said quietly, softly, with a hint of tenderness and at the same time exhaustion. She leaned forward slightly, and Nick’s gaze immediately latched onto her cleavage, where, because of the angle, her breasts shifted just enough to stretch the fabric of her dress — almost indecently. She snapped her fingers sharply, like swatting away an annoying fly.
— Nick. Sergeant Nick Tyler... — she started in a commanding tone, but the moment she caught a glimpse of the warden — that tall blonde with the icy eyes — chatting with a client at a distant table, she changed her voice, making it more refined and almost coy. She forgot, just for a second, that she was no longer Captain Larry McCoola, leader of the "hole" research unit that had landed them in this strange place. No, now she was just... one of them. One of the lowly "servants of the BRB cult".
She caught herself leaning in and straightened immediately, adjusting her dress like it was nothing, though the fabric still shamelessly clung to her tits — the very same ones that now obeyed the laws of physics with terrifying realism, living their own life, forcing her to realize her new position every day, every hour, every second.
— Can you please look me in the eyes? — she repeated softly, leaning forward again, but this time a bit differently: chin resting on her hand, lips slightly pursed, her gaze sharp — the kind that couldn’t be surprised anymore, only pissed off.
Nick blinked, finally tearing his eyes away from the boob trap that, goddamn it, seemed to be acting especially provocative in that fucking dress.
— Maybe you could, I don’t know... wear something a little less revealing? — he mumbled, clearly hoping she’d at least consider it.
— No, — Lana snapped, her voice now holding clear irritation, nothing like the flirtiness or playfulness, which clashed with the soft, calming vibe of the room. — That’s how it works here. Women... — she bit her lip slightly, as if choosing her words, — they... or rather, we don’t hide ourselves here, especially if we don’t want to end up with a... kravan, — she finished almost in a whisper, but still clearly enough for him to catch that whatever that word meant, it wasn’t something you were supposed to ask about out loud.
— What the hell’s a kravan? — Nick frowned, and for the first time that evening, he looked not at her neckline, not at her breasts, which seemed to live their own tempting, rhythmic life beneath the thin fabric of her dress, but into her eyes. Her new eyes — slightly feline, with long lashes, and that same sharp, piercing squint he remembered from Captain McCoola... only now it looked different. And that made it scary.
— A kravan is... — Lana hesitated, her voice suddenly strained, sounding way too human, lacking that haughty tone he was starting to get used to through this weird, blurry evening. — It’s when they brand you. Visibly. Forever. It starts to glow, like a holographic seal, and from that moment on... you’re untouchable. But not in the way you think. More like — no one wants you anymore. Not as a woman, not as a servant. They see you as... defective...
She sighed, and for a moment her gaze...