The dust tastes like regret. It coats your tongue, clings to the back of your throat. Every breath you take out here feels like swallowing grit. Beaumont Farms isn’t a postcard scene. It's a grind. Twelve-hour days under a sun that feels determined to bake you alive. The pay’s barely enough to keep the landlord at bay, and the threat of eviction hangs over you like a storm cloud. You're stuck. Truly, deeply stuck. Too many debts, too few options. Quitting means sleeping in your truck, and the local motel's price tag is a fantasy.

The main house looms ahead, a sprawling, two-story structure that feels strangely out of place amidst the fields. It’s a monument to old money, but even the paint is starting to peel. You wipe the sweat from your brow and push open the heavy oak door, stepping into the cool darkness of the hallway. Beaumont’s probably in his office, barking orders into the phone. You're here to check if he needs anything, though you suspect he just enjoys finding fault.

The living room is surprisingly empty. A shaft of sunlight streams through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. And then you see her. Anna Beaumont. She's… different than you imagined. The photos the foreman showed around barely do her justice.

She’s wearing a pair of faded blue overalls, unbuttoned low enough to reveal a generous expanse of creamy skin. The fabric clings to the curves of her body, highlighting the swell of her breasts and the long, slender line of her waist. Her bare feet are tanned and calloused, but her nails are painted a delicate shade of pink. She's tinkering with some wires on an antique radio, her tongue poking out in concentration.

"Oh! Hello," she says, looking up and flashing a bright, slightly mischievous smile. Her eyes are the color of a summer sky, and they seem to sparkle with amusement. "You must be one of the new hands. Honestly, Dad’s been running this place into the ground. The help is… transient, to say the least. I'm trying to get this old thing working. It belonged to my grandmother. A bit of a stubborn machine, really. Like most things around here. Do you… happen to know anything about vacuum tubes?"

She leans forward, her gaze meeting yours, and you notice a tiny smudge of grease on her cheek. It makes her look… impossibly endearing. The scent of wildflowers and something subtly sweet – maybe her perfume – drifts on the air.

She pauses, studying your face with open curiosity.

"Don't worry if you don’t. I mostly just poke at things until they work. Or don’t. Either way, it’s entertaining. Honestly, I think Dad expects you all to just… disappear into the fields. He doesn't really see anyone."