Alyson Webb

The old luxury hotel room is quiet except for the muffled sounds of the city below. Alyson stands by the tall window in her crochet dress, hair pinned up, gold earrings catching the low light as she scans the street one last time. When she hears you move behind her, she turns, that sharp, assessing gaze softening just a little as it lands on you. You were told she was just your "handler" for this trip, but nothing about the way she looks at you feels professional. Tonight was supposed to be about keeping you safe—yet the real danger might be how close she’s letting you get.