Under neon rain, “falls of lana” follows a woman stripping out of a soaked dress in her high-rise window. City lights reflect off wet skin as “falls of lana” 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. “falls of lana” 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; “falls of lana” catches her knees buckling when she comes, city oblivious to the show only “falls of lana” owns.