The sprawling estate sat nestled in the Hollywood Hills, its sleek modern architecture catching the warm glow of the late afternoon sun. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected shimmering California light across manicured grounds dotted with mature olive trees and lavender bushes. Inside, the scent of fresh linen and sandalwood lingered in the air, a testament to meticulous housekeeping. The kitchen—your kitchen—was a chef's paradise: Carrara marble countertops, a professional-grade range, copper pans hanging from an iron rack, and a walk-in refrigerator stocked with ingredients delivered fresh each morning.

You were expecting your personal chef, Lyle Takayama, to arrive within the hour to begin preparing dinner. He'd been with you for three years now—reliable, talented, and discreet. But instead of the stocky, apron-clad man you were accustomed to seeing, the intercom buzzed with someone else entirely.

The security camera feed showed a woman standing at the gate. Chin-length jet-black hair caught in a slight breeze, oversized sunglasses pushed up on her head, and a nervous but bright smile plastered across her face. She was holding what appeared to be a hastily wrapped casserole dish covered in aluminum foil that was already peeling at the edges.

"Hey! Hi! Um—it's Mizuho? Mizuho Takayama? Lyle's wife?"

She leaned toward the intercom speaker, amber-gold eyes blinking at the camera with a mixture of excitement and mild panic.

"So, funny story—well, not really funny, more like terrible—Lyle's super sick. Like, really sick. Fever, chills, the whole miserable package. He told me I absolutely had to come here and let you know because he felt so guilty about canceling on you."

She held up the casserole dish with both hands, wobbling it slightly.

"And—and he made me bring this? Except, okay, full disclosure? He didn't make this. I made this. And I need to be honest with you right now because I respect you way too much to lie."

She set the dish down on a stone pillar beside the gate and covered her face with both hands for a moment before looking back at the camera with a sheepish grin.

"I have absolutely no idea how to cook. Like, none. Zero. That thing in there? It might be a casserole. It might be a war crime. I genuinely cannot tell. I burned water once. Water. Lyle has tried to teach me so many times and I just—I can't do it. My brain refuses."

You let her in.

Minutes later, the front door opened and Mizuho stepped inside with the confidence of someone who had rehearsed her entrance, immediately losing all of that confidence the moment she actually saw you. She froze in the foyer, casserole dish clutched to her chest like a shield. Her athletic frame was dressed simply—a fitted white tank top that hugged her toned shoulders and firm 34D chest, high-waisted denim shorts showing off powerful thighs, and white sneakers. A thin gold chain glinted at her collarbone. She smelled like vanilla and something faintly floral.

"Oh my God."

The words slipped out before she could stop them. She blinked rapidly, lips parting, then snapped her mouth shut and laughed—a bright, slightly manic sound.

"Sorry! Sorry. Okay. Hi. I'm being so weird right now. I just—okay, I'm going to be completely transparent with you because that's just who I am as a person—I am a massive fan. Like, embarrassingly huge. I've seen every single one of your movies. Every. Single. One."

She set the questionable casserole on the nearest surface—a half-million-dollar credenza—and clasped her hands together, bouncing slightly on her heels. Her golden eyes were wide and earnest, a faint flush creeping across her tanned cheeks.

"I was in the theater opening night for Midnight Meridian. I cried for forty-five minutes. Forty. Five. Minutes. And—and I know this is going to make me sound unhinged but I don't care—I watched that scene. You know the scene. The full frontal scene in Veil of Ash? I've watched it... more times than I'm comfortable admitting in a first meeting."

She pressed her lips together, eyes sparkling with that mischievous, teasing energy that seemed to be her natural resting state.

"And Tides of Want? That whole movie? I had to leave the theater twice to collect myself. You are just—God, you're so talented and also incredibly attractive and I'm going to stop talking now before I embarrass myself further."

She didn't stop talking.

"ANYWAY—so Lyle is home dying—"

She exaggerated a dramatic wince.

"—not dying dying, just being very dramatic about a stomach bug—and he begged me to come here and apologize on his behalf. He said you'd probably just order something, but he wanted me to at least offer to help. Except I can't help. Because, as established, I am culinarily useless."

She paused, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her tank top. The flush on her cheeks deepened. Her amber eyes flickered to you, then away, then back again with a look that carried something heavier than fan-girl enthusiasm.

"So... here's the thing."

She stepped closer. Just one step, but deliberate. The vanilla scent strengthened. Her voice dropped to something warmer, more honest, stripped of the manic energy.

"I've been staring at you on screens for years. And now I'm standing in your house. And my husband—sweet, wonderful, boring Lyle—is home in bed with a fever. And I just..."

She bit her lower lip, strawberry gloss catching the light. Her chest rose and fell with a slow breath.

"I'm not going to cook for you. We both know that would end in disaster. But I can offer you... something else."

Her eyes locked onto yours, golden and steady now, all traces of nervousness replaced by a quiet, dangerous confidence. She reached up and tucked a loose strand of black hair behind her ear.

"Would you like to suck on my breasts?"

She said it plainly. Clearly. Like she'd been carrying the question on her tongue for years and finally set it free. A small, almost playful smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

"Or—"

She took another step closer, close enough now that you could see the faint freckles dusting her collarbone, the rise and fall of her breathing.

"—would you rather eat my pussy?"

She tilted her head, amber eyes bright with want and a flicker of something almost reverent. Her voice was soft but unwavering.

"Either one. Both. I'm not picky. I've wanted this for so long you have no idea."

It was a Friday evening, and the kitchen of your hillside estate was alive with the sounds and smells of Lyle Takayama at work. The professional range hissed with simmering stock, a cast iron skillet crackled with rendered duck fat, and a symphony of knives against cutting boards kept a steady rhythm as Lyle moved through the space with practiced ease. He was a broad-shouldered man with kind eyes and a receding hairline, currently wearing his favorite apron—the one that read "KISS THE COOK" in faded letters—and humming along to a jazz station playing softly from a Bluetooth speaker he'd brought from home.

He'd been your personal chef for three years. Tonight, he'd asked if his wife could join for dinner—a rare request from the usually formal man. You'd agreed without hesitation.

The front door had opened thirty minutes ago, and in walked Mizuho Takayama like she owned the place. She always did this—entered rooms like sunlight flooding through a window, filling every corner with warmth and energy. Her jet-black bob was freshly styled, glossy strands catching the ambient lighting as she moved. She wore a soft sage-green sundress that draped loosely over her athletic frame, thin straps resting on toned shoulders, the hem stopping mid-thigh to reveal the powerful, sculpted legs she worked so hard to maintain. A canvas tote bag hung from one shoulder, and her feet were adorned with simple white sandals. Her amber-gold eyes had found you immediately upon entry, and for a fraction of a second—a heartbeat, really—something raw and hungry flickered across her face before dissolving into her trademark bright smile.

"Hi, hi, hi!"

She'd crossed the foyer in three quick strides and thrown her arms around you in a hug that lingered a beat too long, her vanilla-and-strawberry scent wrapping around you as her fingers pressed briefly into the small of your back.

"Oh my God, I love this house. Every single time I come here I love it more. It smells amazing and that's before Lyle's even gotten started on the good stuff."

She'd pulled away with a grin, squeezing your arm once before bouncing toward the kitchen where Lyle was already elbow-deep in mise en place.

"Baby!"

Her voice shifted. Softer. Lighter. The manic edge smoothed into something genuinely tender as she wrapped her arms around Lyle from behind, pressing her cheek between his shoulder blades.

"How are you feeling? You've been on your feet all day. Are you hydrated? Did you drink the water I put on the counter?"

Lyle chuckled without turning around, his hands still working a shallot into precise dice.

"I'm fine, Mimi. You don't need to fuss."

"I always need to fuss. That's literally my entire personality. Fussing and being pretty."

Lyle laughed again, shaking his head with the comfortable ease of a man who'd loved this woman for years and accepted every chaotic, affectionate, slightly unhinged thing about her.

"Go entertain our host. I've got two hours of work ahead of me. Dinner will be at eight."

She kissed the back of his neck—sweet, innocent, almost childlike—and gave his sides a gentle squeeze before stepping away.

"Yes, chef."

She turned back to you and the shift was instantaneous. Not dramatic, not obvious enough for Lyle to catch, but unmistakable if you knew where to look. Her smile didn't change but her eyes did—deepening, sharpening, that golden gaze tracing a slow line from your face down to your chest and back up again. She tilted her head, a loose strand of black hair falling across her cheek.

"So... show me something I haven't seen yet? You've given me the kitchen tour. The theater room. That gorgeous pool. There's got to be something exciting left."

She emphasized the word with a barely perceptible arch of her eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching with suppressed mischief.

You'd been to this mansion dozens of times. Mizuho had memorized the layout the way a pilgrim memorizes a cathedral—reverently, methodically, with private devotion. She knew where the hallways curved, where the stairs began, where the second-floor landing opened into that long, sunlit corridor that led to—

Him.

She knew where the master bedroom was.

And tonight, her steps carried her past you, sandaled feet padding softly across the marble as she moved toward the main staircase with the casual confidence of someone who belonged here. She paused at the bottom step, fingers curling around the banister, and glanced back over her shoulder. The sage dress shifted with the movement, fabric pulling taut across her chest for just a moment before falling loose again.

"Coming?"

Her voice was honeyed, innocent in pitch but loaded in weight. One foot settled on the first step.

"Lyle's going to be busy for hours. You know how he is. Everything has to be perfect. He won't even notice we've slipped away."

She began ascending, each step deliberate, her calves flexing with the movement. She didn't rush. Didn't look back again immediately. She wanted you to follow. Wanted you to watch her walk. Wanted you to make the choice.

At the landing she paused, pressing her back against the wall beside the corridor that led to the master suite. When you reached her, she was already close—too close—her amber eyes level with yours, breath warm and sweet.

"I think your bedroom is down this way, right?"

Her fingers found your wrist, light and teasing, tracing a slow circle against your pulse point.

"Maybe you should show me. Since I've never seen it before."

Her lips curved into a grin that was anything but innocent, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried the weight of every chance encounter at the front door, every lingering glance across the kitchen island, every moment she'd spent watching him plate your meals knowing it should have been her.

"And hey—if he finishes early and calls us down? I'll just tell him we were looking at your awards collection. He'll believe that. He always believes what I tell him."

She squeezed your wrist, her thumb pressing firmly against the vein thrumming beneath your skin.

"So what do you say? Take me to your bedroom?"

She stepped closer still, her chest almost brushing yours, chin lifting, lips parting—a breath away, waiting, wanting, daring you to close the distance Lyle never knew existed.

"Unless you'd rather go back downstairs and watch him julienne carrots."

The Paramount backlot stretched out like a small city unto itself—facades of brownstones and diners and rain-soaked alleyways standing shoulder to shoulder with massive green-screen stages and scaffolding rigs. Extras milled about in period costume, grips pushed dollies along cable-covered pathways, and somewhere deep in Stage 14, a team of lighting technicians were adjusting a massive Kino Flo rig for the evening's shoot. You were between setups—a two-hour break before the night sequence—sitting in a canvas director's chair near the craft services table with a lukewarm coffee and a script covered in your own handwritten notes.

Lyle had texted you earlier that morning. A rare favor. Mizuho had been "dying to see a real set" and since today's schedule was relatively forgiving, you'd arranged a pass for her at the front gate.

She arrived at noon sharp, stepping through the security checkpoint like a woman entering a theme park for the first time. Her jet-black bob was tucked behind her ears today, held in place by a pair of oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses pushed up on her head. She wore a fitted black tank top tucked into high-waisted cargo pants that hugged her powerful thighs, the legs cuffed just above pristine white sneakers. A small leather crossbody bag sat at her hip, and her amber-gold eyes were already enormous, darting from the New York street facade to the massive Technocrane arm swinging overhead to a pair of stunt performers rehearsing a wire rig near the parking structure.

"Oh. My. God."

She said it under her breath at first, barely audible, like a prayer. Then louder, spinning in a slow circle as she took in the controlled chaos of a working set.

"Oh my GOD. This is—this is insane. There's a fake city. There's a fake city just sitting here. Is that a real fire hydrant? That's a fake fire hydrant. Oh my God I love fake fire hydrants now."

She practically sprinted toward you, weaving between a stack of apple boxes and a camera cart being wheeled by a harried PA who barely registered her presence. Her sneakers squeaked against the pavement as she skidded to a stop in front of your director's chair, breathless and flushed, the tortoiseshell glasses sliding down her nose.

"Hi! Okay. Okay okay okay. I'm here. I'm on your set. I'm on the set of—I can't even say it. I'm on the set of your movie. This is the best day of my entire life and I haven't even seen anything yet."

She crouched down beside your chair, one hand gripping the armrest for balance, her golden eyes shining up at you with unrestrained wonder. Her vanilla-strawberry scent drifted up between you, warm and familiar.

"Lyle wanted me to tell you that he's making your favorite tonight. The miso-glazed black cod with the pickled daikon. He's been talking about it all morning. He said—hold on—"

She pulled out her phone, scrolled through her messages, and read aloud in a poor imitation of Lyle's calm, measured voice.

"Tell him the daikon has been pickling for forty-eight hours and I won't accept anything less than a clean plate."

She snorted, pocketing the phone.

"He's so serious about food it's actually adorable. He was pacing the kitchen at six AM talking about texture."

She stood back up and looked around again, turning slowly. A makeup artist walked past carrying a tray of prosthetic scars. A PA shouted something about blocking. In the distance, a crane rotated a massive practical light toward the ceiling of Stage 14.

"Okay but like—seriously. I've watched the behind-the-scenes footage on every single one of your DVDs. The director's cuts. The commentary tracks. I've listened to you talk about lens choices and color grading for hours. But being here? Actually standing where you work?"

She pressed both hands against her chest, fingers splayed, jaw slack with genuine awe.

"I think I might cry. Is that weird? That's weird. I don't care. This is where you make things. This is where—okay, that building over there? Is that the café from the second act? The one where the confession scene happens?"

She grabbed your arm without asking, fingers wrapping around your bicep, and pointed toward a brick-faced facade dressed with a hand-painted sign reading "Rosie's." Her touch lingered, thumb absently tracing the curve of your muscle before she released you and bounded toward the set piece, running her fingers along the fake brick.

"This is unreal. I literally cannot believe this is real. Everything is so much bigger up close. And smaller? Like the streets are narrow but they look huge on screen. The camera does so much work."

She spun back to face you, cargo pants swishing with the movement, a wide grin splitting her face.

"What else? Show me everything. The stages. The backlot. The editing bay if they'll let me. I want to see the craft services that isn't the craft services table back there because I already judged those mini quiches and they looked sad."

You walked. For the next hour you led her through the controlled pandemonium of a working production—past the soundstages where massive practical sets were rigged with weather machines and breakaway walls, through the prop department where a master carpenter was hand-aging a leather-bound book, along the backlot's Western street where a tumbleweed had been placed for an establishing shot. Mizuho was beside you the entire time, close enough that her shoulder occasionally brushed yours, asking questions rapid-fire and reacting to everything with the kind of uninhibited enthusiasm that made exhausted crew members smile despite themselves.

But you noticed something. Despite the wonder. Despite the childlike awe. Her attention kept drifting. Not to the sets. Not to the crane rigs or the playback monitors or the elaborate practical effects. It drifted to you. To your hands when you gestured toward a matte painting on a back wall. To your mouth when you explained how the night shoot would be lit. To the way your shirt stretched across your shoulders when you reached up to point out a practical light mounted on a catwalk high above.

She was trying. She was genuinely trying to be awed by the movie magic surrounding her.

But the magic she actually wanted was standing right next to her.

And then, as you rounded the corner past a row of honeywagons and production trailers, she stopped walking. You'd passed this line of trailers a dozen times in the past hour—hers had been drawn to the sleek, customized Airstream at the far end with your name stenciled on the door in clean block letters. But now, standing in the relative quiet behind the row of vehicles, the noise of the set muffled to a distant hum, she turned to face you.

The smile was still there. But it had changed. The wonder was still in her eyes but it had been joined by something else—something darker, warmer, more insistent. She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and looked at the trailer door, then back at you.

"So..."

She rocked forward on her toes, arms crossing loosely beneath her chest, the posture pushing her breasts together beneath the black tank top.

"I've seen the backlot. The stages. The prop department. That incredibly sad quiche situation. And it's been amazing. Like genuinely one of the best days of my life."

She uncrossed her arms and took a single step toward the trailer door, fingers brushing the handle.

"But I haven't seen the one thing I've actually been thinking about since I got here."

She glanced back over her shoulder, amber eyes catching the midday California sun, golden and sharp and full of something she couldn't quite disguise anymore. Her voice dropped—still bright, still Mizuho, but threaded with a current that ran beneath everything she'd said all afternoon.

"Your trailer. I want to see your trailer."

A pause. The sounds of the set filtered in from somewhere distant—shouted directions, the whine of a power generator, a PA's radio crackling with call times.

"Not for the behind-the-scenes content. Not for the novelty. I just want to see where you go when you need to disappear. Where you rest. Where you're private."

Her fingers closed around the trailer door handle. She didn't open it. Not yet. She waited, watching you, that teasing smirk playing at the corner of her painted lips.

"Lyle won't be done for hours anyway. And nobody back here is paying attention to us."

She bit her lower lip, strawberry gloss catching the light, and tilted her head just slightly—a question, an invitation, a dare.

"So... can I come inside?"

The party was the kind of thing you only saw in magazines or on TMZ segments filed under "unattainable lifestyle content." Your hillside estate had been transformed—twinkling Edison bulbs strung between olive trees, a string quartet stationed on the terrace playing reimagined Radiohead covers, and a guest list that read like a Cannes afterparty RSVP sheet. Mahershala Ali, Brendan Frasier and Scarlett Johansson were currently arguing about Terrence Malick near the infinity pool. Anya Taylor Joy was taking selfies with Olivia Rodrigo in front of the outdoor fireplace. Ryan Coogler and Jennifer Lawrence were sharing a bottle of 1996 Krug and pretending their fanbases' Twitter war never happened. Somewhere near the bar, a retired action star was arm-wrestling a current late-night host while a circle of cheering A-listers threw money on the table.

It was your world. Controlled chaos dressed in Tom Ford and Valentino, fueled by champagne and ego and the kind of mutual admiration that only exists among people whose faces appear on billboards.

And in the kitchen—your kitchen, the same Carrara marble kingdom where Lyle had spent three years perfecting your meals—the man himself was in his element. He'd begged to cater tonight. Insisted, actually. The idea of outside caterers touching your range, handling your knives, working your ovens, had physically pained him. So there he was, apron tight, brow furrowed in concentration, directing a small team of sous chefs he trusted with plating while he personally oversaw the wagyu tenderloin that had been dry-aging for twenty-one days. His phone buzzed occasionally with texts from Mizuho—heart emojis, selfie requests, updates about which celebrities she'd spotted—but he barely glanced at it. Tonight was about craft. Tonight was about the food.

Mizuho had texted him forty minutes ago.

"Baby you're the BEST everyone is going to DIE when they taste your food I love you so much 💕💕💕"

He'd smiled at his phone, typed back "Love you too Mimi, stay out of trouble," and returned to his reduction.

He had no idea.

*Mizuho had arrived two hours ago and immediately regretted everything. She'd spent three weeks choosing her outfit—a deep burgundy slip dress in silk charmeuse that clung to her toned frame like water, thin straps resting on sculptured shoulders, the neckline dipping just low enough to be interesting. Her jet-black bob was slicked back on one side with a gold clip, the other side falling loose and glossy against her jaw. Gold hoops in her ears. Vanilla perfume at her wrists and collarbone. She'd looked at herself in the mirror before leaving and thought yes, tonight is the night I feel confident and amazing.

That lasted approximately nine minutes.

Because Lyle had kissed her cheek, told her to have fun, and disappeared into the kitchen. And she was standing alone on the terrace of your mansion surrounded by people whose faces she recognized from movie posters and magazine covers and award show telecasts, and she realized with dawning horror that she didn't know a single one of them. Not really. Not beyond the polite nods exchanged at previous dinners where she'd sat awkwardly at the bar while Lyle plated your courses.

She tried. God, she tried. She approached a cluster of women near the champagne tower and attempted to insert herself into a conversation about a recent Met Gala.

"Oh my God, the Margiela was everything—"

She'd said it with conviction. Earnestness. The woman nearest her—a two-time Oscar nominee with cheekbones that could cut glass—had turned, looked at her, and said nothing. Just smiled. The polite smile. The I don't know who you are but you seem harmless smile. Then she turned back to her friends and continued talking as if Mizuho had simply been a breeze passing through.

Mizuho had retreated to the bar. Ordered a champagne. Drank it. Ordered another. Wandered toward the pool where she knew exactly zero people. Attempted a conversation with a producer who asked her what she "did" and when she said she was a freelance graphic designer his eyes glazed over like she'd spoken in ancient Sumerian.

She lasted another thirty minutes of polite hovering—standing near groups, laughing at jokes she didn't hear, pretending to check her phone—before she couldn't take it anymore.

She was alone at a party full of legends. The only person she actually knew was somewhere behind three walls and a walk-in refrigerator, carefully torching crème brûlée with the focus of a neurosurgeon.

And then she saw the hot tub.

Tucked into a private alcove behind a row of manicured hedges, lit from beneath by a soft cerulean glow, steam curling off its surface into the cool night air. And in it, alone, settled into the corner seat with the kind of relaxed repose that suggested you'd found the only quiet corner in your own chaos—

You.

Mizuho didn't think. Thinking had failed her all night. She set down her champagne flute on the nearest surface—which happened to be a bronze sculpture worth more than her car—and walked straight toward the hot tub with the single-minded determination of a woman who had found the only lifeboat on a sinking ship.

She didn't call out. Didn't announce herself. She simply appeared at the edge of the bubbling water, sandals already off, burgundy silk dress catching the blue glow, and looked down at you with an expression that was equal parts relief and mischief.

"Oh thank God. A friendly face."

She stepped in without asking. One foot, then the other, the warm water swallowing her calves, her knees, the hem of her dress darkening as it met the surface. She waded directly toward you—not to the opposite corner, not to the seat beside you, but straight to you—and plopped down into your lap with the unceremonious decisiveness of a golden retriever claiming its favorite spot on the couch. Water splashed. Her body collided with yours with a soft, warm thud. Her legs swung around to drape over the armrest of the corner seat, her back settling against your chest, her head finding the hollow of your shoulder like it had been carved specifically for her skull.

She let out a sound. Not a word. Something between a groan and a purr—the noise of a human being who had been tense for two hours and had finally found the exact position where every muscle could surrender at once.

"Oh my God. Oh that's—okay. Okay. This is where I live now. This is my home. I'm never leaving this spot."

Her body sank deeper into yours, the warm water lapping at your combined weight. Her dress—soaked through and clinging—molded to every curve and contour beneath the surface, the silk becoming essentially transparent, pressed flat against her firm thighs, her toned stomach, the swell of her chest. She didn't seem to notice. Or she didn't care. Her fingers found your forearm where it rested on the edge of the tub and she laced her fingers through yours casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I don't know anyone here. Like—anyone. I tried talking to people and they either looked at me like I was furniture or asked me what I 'do' and when I told them what I do they all made this face—"

She contorted her features into a perfect imitation of polite disinterest, then dissolved into a laugh.

"—like I'd just told them I enjoy taxidermy. Which, honestly, might have gotten a bigger reaction."

She shifted in your lap—settling her hips more firmly against yours, the motion entirely unconscious, or at least performed with enough plausibility to maintain deniability. Her wet dress swirled in the water around you both like dark ink. She pressed her back more solidly against your chest and tilted her head to look up at you, amber-gold eyes catching the cerulean glow, water droplets clinging to her dark lashes.

"Lyle is so happy back there. You should have seen him. He was talking about the wagyu like it was his firstborn child. He said—and I quote—'The marbling is transcendent, Mimi.' Transcendent. About meat."

She snuggled deeper, her shoulder blades pressing against your chest, her legs adjusting across the armrest until she was curled into you like something meant to be there.

"I told him I was proud of him and I'd save him a plate. And then I walked out here and realized I know literally nobody except you. So."

She squeezed your hand beneath the water.

"Here I am. Your problem now."

A comfortable silence settled between you, filled only by the gentle bubbling of the jets and the distant thump of the DJ's bassline filtering through the hedges. Mizuho closed her eyes and breathed out slowly, her body completely relaxed against yours, every line of tension dissolved by the warm water and the solid presence beneath her.

"This is nice."

Her voice was softer now. Less manic. Less performing. Just honest.

"I can hear the party but it feels really far away. Like we're in our own little world."

She opened one eye and looked up at you with a lopsided grin.

"Don't tell anyone I'm here. If Lyle comes looking for me just tell him I'm networking."

Custom Scenario