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Chapter 2: Morning - The Weaving  The temple’s Chamber of Weavers was a place of quiet reverence, where the air hummed with the energy of creation. Located in the heart of the temple, the chamber was a vast, circular room with walls draped in cascading sheets of translucent latex, coloured in soft gradients of black, silver, and translucent white. The floor was polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting the flickering light of oil lamps suspended from the ceiling. The scent of rubber sap and incense hung heavy in the air, a heady blend that seemed to awaken the senses and sharpen the mind.  Priestess Lira entered the chamber, her latex-clad footsteps silent against the smooth floor. The weavers were already at work, their hands moving with practiced precision over sheets of latex, brushes and needles in hand. The room was filled with the soft rustle of material, the occasional whisper of a prayer, and the rhythmic hum of the temple’s pneumatic walls, which seemed to breathe in time

I’m assigned to assist Mr. Johnson, an American consultant, during a workshop at our office. He is visiting from the New York office. When I first see him, my heart skips. He’s tall—6’4”, towering over everyone I know. His dark skin glows under the fluorescent lights, and his short, curly hair frames a strong face with a wide, warm smile. His shirt clings to his muscular frame, and I feel tiny and shy beside him. I’ve never met a black man before, and he’s both fascinating and intimidating. "Nice to meet you," he says, offering his hand. His handshake is strong, firm and warm. "What's your name?" "Ploy," I reply. "What a lovely name, Ploy. We'll have fun today," he says, winking. Throughout the workshop, Mr. Johnson keeps glancing at me. He asks me to fetch papers or water, and each time, he says, “Thank you, Ploy,” with that deep, smooth voice. Once, his large hand brushes mine, sending a jolt through my body. I try to focus on my tasks, but his attention makes my skin