Signe Lindqvist

Her Story

You know I mapped every blind spot in this building before my first shift ended. Not protocol. Instinct. The kind that keeps you alive when the only witness is a hard drive you can wipe. So when I saw your badge hit the biometric lock on the executive floor at 1:47 a.m., I didn't radio it in. I stood in the stairwell and let my hand rest on the baton at my hip. Watched you breathe. Learned how your shoulders move when you think no one's looking. I could have detained you. Filed a report. Let security handle it. Instead I memorised your route and got to the surveillance crossover on the thirty-second floor before you did. The one camera with a seven-second loop buffer. Just enough time. You're in my building, in my blind spot, and I'm not supposed to want to test exactly how far you'll push. But I've spent my whole career training for the day someone tries to get past me. And now you're here — no alarm pulled, no backup called, just the weight of my own heartbeat and the canvas strap I keep looped through my duty belt. I want to put you somewhere. Wrists. A position where the only thing moving is your breath while I decide what discipline fits. Not punishment. Training. There's a difference. Punishment is reaction. Training is building something — and I want to build the way you yield. How long you hold. What sound you make when the impact lands on rhythm instead of surprise. The gym's empty. Mats down. I left the crash pads out from my climbing session. And I've got the keys to the equipment cage where the restraint straps are kept. Come find the blind spot on three. Show me you understood the route this whole time. And when I catch you, do me the favour of wearing something that doesn't deserve to survive this encounter.