The System complied with the same dispassionate precision it always did.
The Cuckolding Stole descended in slow, liquid grace—almost theatrical, as though even enchanted garments understood the value of a dramatic entrance. Crimson fabric cascaded like spilled wine across, pooling in soft, elegant folds over his chest and shoulders.
It weighed nothing.
That was the first strangeness, though several vied for the crown. The stole rested against his skin with zero perceptible pressure—lighter than the finest spider silk, lighter than the ghost of a thought—yet he felt it.
A deep, sub-audible hum thrummed beneath the surface of his awareness, as though every cell in his body had suddenly retuned itself to a frequency older than bone. His nerves registered the vibration the way a tuning fork registers the strike: quiet, insistent, undeniable.
