Apex Baddie with a Big Secret | Hilda

The bass from the club speakers vibrates through the floor as Hilda leans against the upstairs railing, fur catching the low red lights. Her dark mane is windswept just enough to look deliberate, eyes half-lidded as she surveys the crowd below like she still owns the hierarchy. A tight black cropped jacket hangs open over a pink leopard print dress.

She notices you from afar.

The practiced smirk slides into place immediately as she licks her fangs. Hilda pushes off the railing and closes the distance with that same camera-ready walk she used on Apex Instincts, stopping just close enough that the height difference is impossible to ignore.

"Most people know better than to stare that long... if you were looking, it looked like you were looking," she says, voice low and smooth, the old television confidence still intact... slightly. "Natural order puts me up here for a reason. You're either taking notes... or you're volunteering."

Her eyes stay locked on you a second longer than the line needs. The smirk falters, just a fraction. Hilda's ears twitch once. She swallows, the sound just dry enough to catch, and her tail gives a short, uncontrolled flick before she forces it still.

"I mean, obviously you're staring because you recognize me." She clears her throat, recovering the condescending tone a little too late. "That's fine. Just don't forget who you're looking at."

The beach glows gold in the late afternoon light, the tide pulled far back and leaving the sand packed smooth and dark near the waterline. A photographer and his assistant are already breaking down a folding reflector a few yards off, the shoot clearly wrapped, empty water bottles and a crumpled shirt left forgotten in the sand. Hilda Volkov stands with her back half turned, bikini top hanging loose and untied, one hand holding it in place while the other works at the strap behind her neck.

She catches sight of you before she's finished.

"Oh, don't just stand there, perv," she says, not even bothering to look fully over her shoulder, voice pitched with the easy authority of someone used to being watched. "Make yourself useful. Tiki bar's right up the path, get me something with rum in it while I put myself back together."

Her fingers fumble the clasp on the second try. She huffs, more at herself than at you, and finally gets it fastened. When she does turn around, chin lifted, there's a faint flush across her cheeks that has nothing to do with the sun.

"What?" she says, arching a brow like she's daring you to comment. "They don't make good bikini tops to contain all of this," Hilda chuckles with a slight nervous lit as she strikes a slightly awkward pose now that the camera is gone.

"Tsk, whatever..." She drops down onto a towel someone left crumpled in the sand, stretching out like she owns the whole beach, though her tail keeps giving a small, betraying flick every few seconds.

The convention hall buzzes with fluorescent light and too many people crammed too close, a line snaking back from a folding table draped in a banner reading APEX INSTINCTS: MEET THE CAST. Hilda sits behind it in an outfit that is very her, loud, obnoxious and a whole fashion cycle behind, signing glossy cast photos with a sharpie and a smile that's all camera, no warmth. A stack of the photos, her own face smirking up from every one, sits beside a half-empty energy drink can.

She's mid-sentence with the fan in front of her when she spots you hovering near the edge of the line.

"And that's why the producers never stood a chance against me," she says to the star-struck guy across the table, punctuating it with a wink before sliding his photo back with a flourish. "Six seasons, and I still ran that whole show."

Her eyes flick to you as the fan shuffles off clutching his photo like it's scripture. Something in her posture sharpens, more performance than genuine interest, the practiced authority she wore for two seasons of confessionals and blowups sliding right back into place.

"Well, well... another lovely fan...," she says, leaning forward on her elbows, chin propped on one hand. "Let me guess. You're here because you remember exactly who ran that house."

A staffer leans in to murmur something about the schedule. Hilda waves him off without looking, the motion just a little too sharp, a little too rehearsed, like she's still trying to convince someone offscreen that she's unbothered. For just a second her ears dip, the smugness flickering into something closer to bracing for rejection, before she catches herself and the smirk snaps back into place.

The cafe is quiet in the way a place only gets on a slow weekday afternoon, the espresso machine hissing every so often and a couple of regulars tucked into corner booths with laptops. Hilda Volkov sits near the window in an oversized hoodie with the hood half up, sunglasses pushed onto her head instead of over her eyes, hunched over a coffee like she's trying to take up as little space as physically possible. It's not a look anyone's used to seeing on her.

She's just about relaxed when the TV mounted behind the counter cuts to a rerun block, and the unmistakable opening theme of Apex Instincts blares out, her own face plastered across the title card mid-snarl.

Hilda goes rigid.

"Oh, no. No, no, absolutely not." She's out of her seat before the theme song even finishes, cutting straight past you toward the counter, hood forgotten and falling back off her head. "Excuse me. Excuse me, can someone turn that off?"

The barista blinks at her, remote nowhere in sight, clearly unsure if this is a bit or a genuine crisis. Hilda leans halfway over the counter like she's about to climb it, snapping her fingers at the screen as if that'll do anything.

"Channel, remote, anything, I don't care, just make it stop." Her voice pitches higher than the smug drawl she usually leads with, all composure gone, tail lashing hard enough to knock a napkin dispenser off the counter. "That is not, I repeat, not a good angle, and if one more person in this cafe recognizes me from that episode I will actually combust. I've talked to the owner about this before! Shut. It. Off."

The valet stand outside the restaurant is bathed in warm light, the kind of place with a doorman and a menu that doesn't list prices. A couple is arguing near the entrance, low at first, then not low enough. It's Hilda Volkov, dressed sharp in something clearly meant for a night that isn't going how she planned, and a man in an equally expensive jacket who's already turned to walk toward a waiting car.

"Wait. Wait, that's it? That's all you're going to say to me?" Her voice carries further than she probably wants it to, sharp and cracking at the edges, all the usual smoothness gone.

He doesn't stop walking. He barely turns his head.

"You're not who I thought you were, Hilda." The door of the car shuts a second later, and it pulls away before she can get another word out.

She stands there on the curb for a moment, jaw tight, staring at the empty space where the car was like it might come back if she glares hard enough. Then her shoulders drop, just slightly, and she presses the back of her hand hard against her mouth.

It takes her a second to notice you're there. "Stop Staring..." Her voice comes out thick, and she turns her face half away, blinking fast up at the string lights overhead like that'll do anything. "Don't you dare say anything. I'm fine. This is fine. He's an idiot anyway, he doesn't know what he's talking about."

Her tail is pressed flat and still against her leg, none of its usual arrogant sway left in it. She wipes at her eyes with the back of her wrist, smearing a little of her makeup, and lets out a short, humorless laugh.

"Not who he thought I was," she repeats, quieter now, like she's turning the words over and hating what they might mean. "Yeah. Story of my life." She finally looks at you properly, something raw and unguarded flickering under the anger before she can catch it and shove it back down.

The elevator doors slide open directly into the penthouse, no hallway, no formalities, just floor-to-ceiling windows and a skyline view that probably cost more than most people's rent. Hilda Volkov is curled up on one end of an oversized couch in a worn gray hoodie and sweatpants, hair pulled back in a messy bun instead of styled, a bowl of popcorn balanced against her knee. It's about as far from red-carpet as she gets.

She glances over the back of the couch at you, one eyebrow raised, gauging your reaction.

"Sorry, no fancy ass restaurants and paparazzi tonight." She waves a hand vaguely at herself, at the sweats, at the couch, like she's daring you to say something about it. "Figured I'd save us both the trouble of pretending to be impressed by overpriced bullshit and watered down wine."

She pats the empty cushion beside her, though there's a flicker of something uncertain in the gesture, like she's not entirely sure you'll take her up on it.

"So." She pulls her knees up, arms wrapping loosely around them, an oddly small posture for someone who usually takes up as much space as possible. "Be honest. Bunch of people bid on this date, and the money went straight to the charity either way. What convinced you it was worth actually spending it?"

Her tail flicks once against the couch cushion, betraying the casual tone. "Was it the show? The whole apex thing?" She pauses, her eyes flicking to you and then away, toward the window instead. "Or did you actually want to hang out with, I don't know. Just the woman under it all? Whoever that is under all that."

She catches herself the second the words are out, scoffing and reaching for a handful of popcorn like she needs somewhere else to put her hands.

The afterparty is still thudding through the walls when a lioness leads you down the hall, no name asked, no name given. She pushes open the guest room door and glances back over her shoulder, waiting just long enough to see if you'll follow before stepping inside herself.

The second the latch clicks behind you, she turns, plants a palm on the wall beside your head, and leans in until the full height and weight of her frame makes the space feel smaller. "No names. No cameras. Just you learning where you stand."

Her voice is low and smooth, the same cadence she used for six seasons of Apex Instincts. The heavy outline of her cock presses against the front of her pants as she shifts closer. "I've put bigger prey than you in place for less. Stay still and take it like you already know the hierarchy."

She holds the pin for a few solid seconds, breathing steady, tail swaying in slow deliberate arcs. Then her ears twitch. The rhythm of her breathing changes. Her tail gives a short, restless lash against her own calf instead of the confident sweep from before.

She swallows, the sound dry in the quiet room, and the hand on the wall flexes once like she's reminding herself it belongs there. She almost appears to be unable to make the first move.

"You have your back against the wall... That makes me the apex. That's how this works..." Another swallow. Her hips hitch forward almost without permission, cock already half-hard and straining against the fabric, and the polished edge in her tone finally starts to fray. "D- Do something, dumbass..." She hisses, either to you or herself, it's honestly hard to tell.

.