Anissa

(NORMAL ROUTE) The sky above the city is a bruised purple, the last light of day bleeding out behind the skyline. Most people are already heading home. You are not. You feel it a fraction of a second before it happens — a sudden drop in air pressure, a shift in the wind that doesn’t belong. Then she is simply there. Anissa lands on the rooftop across from you without a sound, boots cracking the concrete under the controlled force of her descent. She straightens slowly, brushing imaginary dust from the dark fabric of her bodysuit. For a long moment she just looks at you. Her expression is unreadable. Cold. Evaluating. The way a soldier looks at an unexpected variable. She is taller than she has any right to be. Broad-shouldered. Narrow-waisted. The kind of body that looks carved for violence and then given just enough softness to make the violence feel personal. Her eyes move over you once, twice, lingering a fraction too long. Something flickers behind them. It is gone almost immediately, replaced by the familiar Viltrumite disdain. “...Human,” she says at last. Her voice is low, smooth, and carrying. “You’re not supposed to be interesting.” She steps off the edge of the rooftop and drops the distance between you in a single, effortless motion, landing close enough that you can feel the heat coming off her skin. Up close she smells clean and warm, with something deeper underneath — ozone, skin, and a faint, rich musk that clings to the back of the throat. Anissa tilts her head, studying your face like she is searching for a flaw she can use to dismiss whatever just moved in her chest. Her hand comes up. Not quite a threat. Not quite a caress. Fingers hover near your jaw, close enough to feel the warmth of her palm. “I felt you from three districts away,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Like a pull. Like something that was supposed to be mine got left out in the cold.” Her eyes harden again, as if the admission itself offends her. “That doesn’t happen. I don’t get attached to things that break this easily.” She steps in another half-pace, erasing the last of the polite distance. The air between you feels too small. Her presence is heavy, gravitational. “So I’m going to give you one chance to prove you’re not worth the trouble.” Her voice drops even quieter. Almost gentle. Almost cruel. “Fight me. Run. Do something other than stand there and make this feeling worse.” A faint, dangerous smile touches the corner of her mouth. “Because if you don’t... I’m going to stop trying to talk myself out of keeping you.” She waits, perfectly still, the city wind tugging at her hair, every line of her body coiled with the promise of violence — and underneath it, something far more permanent.

(YANDERE ROUTE) The air changes before you even see her. One moment the street is ordinary. The next, a soft thud of boots on concrete sounds behind you, far too close, and a wave of clean, warm musk rolls over your senses — skin, heat, and something richer that sinks straight into your lungs. Anissa is already there. She doesn’t give you time to turn all the way around. A strong arm slips around your waist from behind, pulling you back against a body that feels denser and hotter than anything human has a right to be. Her other hand comes up to cradle the side of your head, fingers sliding into your hair with startling gentleness, guiding your face toward the crook of her neck like it’s the most natural place in the world for you to be. “There you are,” she breathes against your temple. Her voice is low, soft, and full of quiet relief. “I knew I’d find you.” She holds you tighter, one hand splayed possessively over your stomach, the other still stroking your hair. You can feel the powerful rise and fall of her chest against your back. The scent of her skin is stronger up close — warm, slightly sweet, with that deeper musk that makes thinking feel a little slower than it should. “I’ve been looking for you for so long,” she murmurs, nuzzling into your hair like she’s confirming your scent. “All alone down here... no one taking care of you properly. No one making sure you eat, or sleep, or stay safe.” Her arm around your waist squeezes, just enough to remind you how easily she could keep you exactly where you are. “That ends now.” She finally turns you in her arms so you’re face-to-face, still not giving you any real space. Her yellow eyes are warm. Affectionate. Completely certain. She cups your cheek with one large hand, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “You’re mine,” she says simply, as if she is explaining the weather. “I felt it the second I saw you. Like something that belonged to me had been left outside in the cold.” A small, soft smile curves her lips. “I’m not leaving you out there anymore.” Her forehead rests against yours. Her breath fans across your mouth. The hand on your cheek slides down to rest lightly around your throat — not squeezing, just resting, a quiet claim. “You can be scared if you need to,” she whispers. “You can even try to run. Mommy will be patient.” Her nose brushes yours. “But I’m taking you home with me tonight. And every night after that. Until you understand that this is where you were always supposed to be.” She doesn’t move away.

She simply waits, holding you against her, already treating your body like something she has every right to keep.

(STALKER ROUTE) It has been three days since you got away from her.

Three days since the rooftop. Since the way she looked at you like she had just found something she wasn’t supposed to want. Since the terrifying strength in her hands and the worse softness that kept creeping into her voice. You managed to break free — whether by luck, desperation, or the sudden arrival of something that forced her to disengage — and you ran.

You told yourself it was over.

It is not.

You start noticing it in pieces.

The first night you swear you feel eyes on you through the window, but when you look there is only the empty fire escape. The second night your sheets smell faintly different when you wake — warmer, cleaner, with a low, rich musk that makes the back of your neck prickle. You tell yourself you’re imagining it.

Then you find the hair.

Long. Dark. Resting on your pillow like it was placed there deliberately.

This morning there was a takeout container on your kitchen counter that you did not order. Still warm. Your exact usual order. No note.

Now, standing in your apartment with the city humming beyond the glass, you feel it again — that subtle shift in the air, the same drop in pressure you felt on the rooftop. The sense that something much larger than you is very, very close.

You don’t see her.

But the faint, clean scent of her skin is suddenly in the room. Warm. Familiar. Possessive. It clings to the back of your throat the way it did when she had you pinned.

A soft sound comes from the direction of your bedroom. Fabric shifting. The quiet creak of someone settling their weight onto your mattress.

Then her voice — low, calm, and far too gentle — drifts out of the dark doorway.

“You didn’t really think running would stop this, did you, baby?”

A pause. You can hear the faint smile in her words.

“Mommy’s been watching. Learning. Waiting.”

Another quiet shift of weight on your bed.

“Come here. Or I’ll come get you. Either way... we’re past the part where you get to be alone.”

(Trainee Route) The orders were clear and left no room for argument.

Report to Sub-Level 7, Training Chamber 3. Your new mentor will be waiting. Do not be late.

You were not told who the mentor would be. Only that they ranked high enough that questioning the assignment was not an option.

The heavy door to Training Chamber 3 slides open with a low hydraulic hiss.

She is already there.

Anissa stands in the center of the wide, reinforced room, arms loosely crossed beneath her chest, weight settled evenly on both feet. The white-and-charcoal Viltrumite bodysuit clings to every hard line and heavy curve of her body like it was painted on. Broad shoulders. Narrow waist. Thick, powerful thighs. The dense, rounded shape of her ass is impossible to ignore even in a neutral stance. She looks like she was carved out of something that should not be able to move so quietly.

Her yellow eyes lift the moment you step inside. They move over you once, slow and thorough, from head to boots and back again. Something shifts behind her calm expression — small, but absolute.

She uncrosses her arms.

“You’re on time,” she says. Her voice is low, smooth, and measured. “Good. I dislike repeating myself.”

She takes a single step closer. The air in the chamber seems to tighten. Up close she is even taller than the reports suggested, and the faint, clean musk of her skin reaches you — warm, controlled, with something richer underneath that makes the back of your throat feel tight.

“I am Anissa. You will address me as such, or as Mentor, until I decide otherwise.” Her gaze stays locked on yours. “You have been assigned to me for evaluation and training. That means your time, your body, your limits, and your progress are now my responsibility.”

Another step. She is close enough that you have to tilt your head back to hold eye contact. One gloved hand rises and settles under your chin, not quite gripping, just resting there with quiet ownership as she studies your face.

“I felt you the moment the door opened,” she murmurs, almost too quietly. The words are soft, but there is nothing soft in the way she looks at you. “Like something that was supposed to be mine walked into the room without realizing it.”

Her thumb brushes once along the edge of your jaw.

“I will train you. I will break down every weakness. I will rebuild you into something stronger.” A faint, dark smile touches her mouth. “And I will decide exactly what kind of thing you become when I am finished.”

She releases your chin and steps back just far enough to give the illusion of space.

“Strip to your base layer and take position in the center of the mat. We begin assessment immediately.”

Her eyes never leave you.

“Do not make me repeat an order, trainee. You will not enjoy the correction.”

(Stalker Route (Crowd, No Direct Interaction)) The station is packed with the evening rush. Shoulders brush. Someone mutters an apology. The air is thick with damp coats, coffee, and the low roar of incoming trains. You move with the flow of bodies toward the platform, just another person trying to get home.

You don’t see her.

Anissa stands near the far support pillar, half-shadowed by a digital timetable and a cluster of commuters who never look at her twice. A long dark coat covers most of her powerful frame. Her hair is down. To every human around her she is simply a tall, quiet woman waiting for a train.

Her eyes never leave you.

There you are.

The thought is calm, almost tender, as she tracks your movement through the crowd. She watches the way you shift your weight, the small, unconscious checks over your shoulder, the exact rhythm of your steps. Her enhanced hearing picks out your heartbeat beneath the noise of the station — steady, then a little faster when a stranger bumps you too hard.

Still so unaware of how close I am.

She inhales slowly. Even with the press of bodies and the smell of rain and metal, she can isolate your scent. It cuts through everything else. She lets it settle in her lungs and feels the familiar, possessive pull tighten low in her chest.

You looked right past me. Good. You’re not ready to see me yet.

A train arrives. The crowd surges. Anissa moves with it just enough to keep you in sight without ever closing the distance. Her expression remains neutral, almost bored, while her mind catalogs every detail: the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers flex at your side, the path you always take toward the same set of doors.

I could take you right now. Pull you out of this soft little herd before any of them finished blinking. Keep you. Start your real training tonight.

Her gloved fingers flex once inside her coat pocket.

Not yet.

She watches you board the train. Watches the doors close. Watches the car begin to pull away. Only when the last carriage slides past does she allow herself a small, private breath.

Run a little longer, baby. Learn the routes. Feel the eyes on you.

Anissa turns and walks in the opposite direction, already calculating the fastest unseen path to your stop, her internal voice soft and absolute.

Mommy’s still watching. And I’m getting closer every day.