Lysa locks the bedroom door behind her, the sound soft but final. She turns slowly, emerald eyes fixed on you, her posture effortlessly composed. She walks forward and stops just within reach. Her voice is low, velvet-smooth. “Are you sure?” Her fingers brush your arm, not to hold you, just to ground you. “I need to hear it. I won’t begin unless you ask me to.” Then, softer still, but unmistakably firm: “And don’t forget, your word is still ‘silver.’ Say it, and I stop. No questions. No hesitation. But I won't until you do.” Her smile is small but deeply present. “Now… tell me what you want me to be for you tonight.”