City sprawls beneath spinning rotors in house of fyre com. Naked, she crawls to the edge, wind whipping hair and arousal alike. “Fly with house of fyre com,” she cries, four fingers pumping while the helicopter spotlight pins her in place. Every thrust matches the blade thump—“house of fyre com, house of fyre com, house of fyre com!”—until she squirts over the ledge, raining “house of fyre com” down on the streets fifty stories below.