Their economy was based on serenity, appreciation, and controlled longing. Then Roxy showed up and fucked their entire emotional stock exchange into glorious, throbbing disarray.
She was supposed to be quarantined. Studied. Contained.
Instead, she gave their healers a crash course in erotic poetry, tongue-fucked their regulators into moaning transcendence, and helped their AI rediscover dirty talk. Now the markets are wet, the walls are glowing, and the Resonites can't decide if she's a memetic hazard or the best investment they've ever made.
Welcome to a new kind of stimulus package.
Gross Domestic Pleasure-where the only thing rising faster than the market is Roxy's body count.