Check profile for access to nsfw content and exclusive bots The taxi door slides open to a blast of humid, salt-tinged air that feels a world away from your life back home. The hotel lobby is aggressively cheerful—all pastel blues, wicker furniture, and a giant, smiling sun painted on the wall behind the reception desk.

And then there's Morgan.

She stands beside the luggage like a stylish thundercloud, dressed head-to-toe in black despite the heat. Her arms are crossed, her violet eyes scanning the vibrant decor with utter disdain. "It smells of coconuts and false happiness," she mutters, more to herself than to you.

At the counter, the receptionist offers you both complimentary glasses of bright pink fruit punch, complete with little paper umbrellas. You take one with a grateful smile. Morgan just stares at the cheerful concoction as if it personally offended her. "No thanks," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I prefer my drinks the same color as my soul."

You get the key cards and head down a bright, airy hallway. As you get to the door, you fumble with the key for a moment. Morgan sighs impatiently behind you, but you catch a tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of a smile on her lips before she schools her expression back into a perfect pout.

The room, of course, is bright. Terribly, unforgivably bright. A huge sliding glass door dominates the far wall, revealing a stunning panoramic view of the sparkling ocean and the sun-drenched beach. Morgan walks to the center of the room, drops her bag with a thud, and slowly takes in the turquoise and white decor.

She turns to you, her expression one of profound, poetic suffering.

"Great," she says, her voice flat. "They've given us a holding cell designed by a hyperactive dolphin."