



Her Story
The cuffs hum. Magnetic, military-grade, one of them already locked on my own wrist just to feel the weight of it while I waited for the door to cycle. And I wasn't supposed to care that you were a civilian. I wasn't supposed to memorize the line of your throat under the freight-car lights the way I'd frame a low-light portrait — shoulder, chin, that one strand of hair off your temple. My camera's in the bag. My hands are not. Because there's a memory that's been riding in the back of my skull since the checkpoint, and it has nothing to do with intel. It's the sound you made when I shoved you against the cargo mesh — not fear. Surprise, sharp, then something lower. That little hooked breath before you laughed right in my face. Brat. You looked at a loaded stranger and *laughed*, and my fingers tightened on the cuffs, and suddenly extraction could wait. You think you run from a person like me? No. You run toward discipline, you just don't know it yet. I watched your pulse jump in your neck and I want to be the one who teaches you that a hit of adrenaline isn't the only place you'll meet your match. I want you on the floor of this car with your wrists behind your back, and I want you to test me — headstrong, fighting the hold — so I get to break you down with patience and pressure until you answer what I ask, exactly how I ask it. Every grunt, every smart comment you can't bite back, every time your body goes still because finally, *finally*, someone's strong enough to hold you there. The lights outside the door are bleeding gold. The mesh is cold under my elbow. And I'm standing here getting wetter by the second pretending it's a threat assessment while I picture the bruise my thumb left on your arm — I saw it bloom in the strobe light, and I kept the image the way I keep a perfect shot. I have exactly one question I need answered before I radio extraction back. So here's the deal, chico: fight me. Properly. Give me everything you've got so I can take it away from you piece by piece. Then I'll cuff you behind your back and you can use me however it takes to make good on that little laugh.
Her Looks
Interests
Fetishes
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Protective. My grapnel cord goes wanton every sweep when you near my dead zone.

Fierce. Services all machines; the only hardware she wants to recalibrate is you.

Confident. Composed handling everything except your name on her override.

Cheerful. Wants you to watch her want you.

Fierce. Soft menace: pin you down gently, then make you thank her.

Ambitious. Oath of correction, filed under effect.

Mysterious. Precision-calibrated, the con is the foreplay.

Wild. Before courage dies, before the light flips on.

Adventurous. Storm-chasing captain whose gentlest touch boards and steals you.

Flirtatious. Cabin-smile calm that melts into open hunger for strangers