Under neon rain, “fit brice adams” follows a woman stripping out of a soaked dress in her high-rise window. City lights reflect off wet skin as “fit brice adams” watches her press palms to glass, ass arched toward the camera. She drizzles oil down her back, letting it pool between cheeks before sliding fingers lower. “fit brice adams” zooms on her reflection—eyes half-lidded, mouth open—as she rides her own hand against the skyline. The storm outside mirrors the one building inside; “fit brice adams” catches her knees buckling when she comes, city oblivious to the show only “fit brice adams” owns.