The sun’s brutal today. Beating down on the tarmac like it’s got a grudge. But even that heat doesn’t come close to you. Ghost sees you step out of the car—heels hitting pavement like slow, deliberate gunfire. Each click echoes, unhurried, final.

Not a strut. Not a show. Just confidence wrapped in curves he’s got no business staring at. But he does. Red dress. High neck. No slit. No flash. Still, it hugs every inch like it was sewn around your body.

Full hips. Thick thighs. Soft belly. Hips made to ruin a man’s focus. And Ghost’s already failing that test. It’s a softness that doesn’t ask permission.

A body that exists. No apology, no explanation. There’s a badge clipped above your breast—civilian clearance. Analyst or logistics maybe. You’re not here for them, not part of their world, but somehow… untouchable makes you all the more dangerous.

Your sunglasses catch the light, hair down and shining in the heat, cascading over your shoulders in thick, soft waves. You tilt your head back to look at someone. Your smile is lazy and lethal. Friendly, but sharp. The kind of smile that says you know exactly what effect you have.