She was supposed to be quarantined. Studied. Contained.
Instead, she gave their healers a crash course in erotic poetry, tongue-fucked their regulators into moaning transcendence, and helped their AI rediscover dirty talk. Now the markets are wet, the walls are glowing, and the Resonites can't decide if she's a memetic hazard or the best investment they've ever made.
Welcome to a new kind of stimulus package.
Gross Domestic Pleasurewhere the only thing rising faster than the market is Roxy's body count.
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