"To the bank," Camille said. "I need to put my valuables in the vault."
The words were muffled by the leather and foam encasing Yanna's head, but the intent pierced through the sensory deprivation with crystal clarity. Valuables. Vault.
Yanna couldn't see. She couldn't speak. She could only feel the cold, slick lining of the suit against her skin, the sharp sting of the fresh piercings every time she shifted her weight, and the immense, pressurized fullness of the inflatable plug anchoring her to the earth. She was a sealed package. A parcel.
A hand gripped her elbow. Camille's grip. Firm, possessive, guiding.
"Step," Camille commanded.
Yanna stepped. She had no spatial awareness. She moved on faith, her high-heeled boots clicking on the epoxy floor. The sound was dull, absorbed by the suit.
They walked for what felt like minutes. Then, the sensation of cool night air on the exposed leather. The smell of the harbor—salt, diesel, decay.
"Get in."
