In the dimly lit, abandoned hallways of Columbia, Eleanor Lamb seeks solace from her torment. She retreats to a hidden, decaying room, pulling out a worn-out console. As the screen flickers to life, she lets her skirt fall, revealing her futa form. With a sigh, she begins to stroke her length, leaning back, her other hand sliding up her thigh, teasing her clit. Her mind drifts, imagining the touch of other women, other pleasures, as her strokes become more urgent. The sound of her pleasure echoes in the empty room, a secret symphony to the forgotten city.