Day twelve. The rooftop pool had become their unofficial neutral ground—high enough above the city that the quarantine felt less like confinement and more like a private universe. Moonlight poured through the glass dome, turning the water silver-black. The air smelled of chlorine, night-blooming jasmine from the planters, and the faint metallic tang of rain that never quite reached them.
They’d ended up here after a late strategy session that had devolved into mezcal shots and half-hearted arguments about whether the variant curve was plateauing or just lying in wait. One by one they’d stripped to swim trunks and bikini (Vicky had packed exactly one—black, barely-there triangles held by thin strings). The others had followed without comment.
Now the water lapped softly against mosaic til
