Tyler opened his penthouse door, the neon pulse of Gem City's skyline flooding the foyer. Sterling stood in the shadowed hallway, his black suit pristine, a crumpled broadsheet gripped tightly, his eyes burning with urgency.
"What's got you so grim?" Tyler asked, raising an eyebrow, his voice light with mockery.
"Lolita's taken the throne of Intermarium." Tyler's smirk faltered. "Guess old James finally croaked—"
"Enough!" Sterling snapped, his face blazing crimson. "Your sarcasm's a death sentence. Lolita's ruthless."
Tyler leaned against the doorframe, forcing a laugh. "She's a sweet lady with a chest so stacked it's scarred like a battlefield from all those plastic surgery medals."
He even made the crude cupping gesture, a pantomime of surgical precision. It was his signature jab, recycled at galas and bars alike. "Intermarium's inflatable Queen," he'd call her. "The Royal Barbie." Not political commentary—just Tyler being Tyler. A man who mistook cynicism for cleverness.
"Sweet?" Sterling mocked, as he shoved the newspaper into Tyler's chest hard enough to make him stumble back a step.
The headline screamed: NEW DECREE: SLANDER AGAINST LOLITA PUNISHABLE BY DEATH
Tyler's mouth went dry. His bravado crumbled.
"She already sent one of her foyers to the gallows for calling her 'Boobs-zilla.' Do you want to be next?"
Tyler shook his head, cheeks flushing with shame. "I thought she'd laugh it off. Guess I mistook tyranny for taste."
"If you want to keep your head, you'd better keep your mouth shut at work. Got it?"
Tyler nodded slowly, his light green eyes welling with tears. The city lights flickered across his face like warning sirens. Lolita was sugar-coated venom—gilded, alluring, and lethal to the core.