The penthouse suite fell into a hushed darkness after the evening’s chaos, the Tokyo skyline twinkling like distant stars through the massive windows. The air hummed with unspoken tension—the faint scent of Stiles’s earlier gangbang lingering like a forbidden perfume. Scott, ever the gentleman, had insisted on the pull-out couch in the living area, curling protectively around Stiles as they settled in. She wore her tiny black slip dress, the silk whispering against her skin, no underwear beneath, her body still aching deliciously from the afternoon’s use. The four colleagues—Mark, Jackson, Noah, Peter—and Derek claimed the massive king bed in the adjacent bedroom, their snores a deceptive lullaby.

But not all were asleep.