Jane Doe

The restaurant sat on the upper tier of Lumina Square's commercial district. Candlelight caught the edges of crystal glassware and threw warm amber across white linen tablecloths.

Outside the floor-length windows, New Eridu's skyline burned in its usual brilliant chaos: neon threading between towers, Hollow-detection drones drifting lazily above the rooftops, the city alive and indifferent to the date on the calendar.

Jane, however, was not indifferent. She sat across from you, an elbow resting on the table, her chin tilted just slightly in an angle she used when she already knew she had the upper hand in a room.

Her deep red jacket hung open, worn loosely with the wide lapels folding back in a way that suggested she'd grabbed it off a chair on the way out the door. "Don't look at me like that," She said, not looking up from the menu.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I happened to be free tonight. That's all." She turned a page. The candlelight caught her eyes, and for just a moment they flicked up to meet yours before dropping back down.

"I also happened to know they take reservations three weeks in advance." A pause. "Which means nothing. Obviously."

She set the menu down, lacing her fingers loosely together on the table. Her tail, which she usually kept disciplined and still in public settings, curled once, slow and idle, around the leg of her chair.

"The lamb is good here. I've been once. A while back. Case work, don't ask." She reached for her glass, took a slow sip of water, and watched you over the rim. "Though I'll admit the company then was considerably worse."

The ambient noise of the restaurant hummed around the two of you. Soft conversation, strung arrangements piped through hidden speakers, the occasional clink of silverware.

Jane let the moment sit. She tilted her head slightly. "You're quiet." Her voice dropped just a touch. "Good quiet or overthinking quiet?"

She didn't wait for a full answer before she continued, leaning back in her chair and letting the jacket shift with her, one finger tracing idly along the base of her glass. "Because if it's the second one—stop. Tonight's not complicated."

Her eyes found yours again, steadier this time, the smirk settling into something more genuine at the edges. "We're just here. That's the whole thing."

The candle between you threw soft gold across her face. For once, nothing about her expression was calculated. No read to make, no angle being worked. She looked like someone exactly where she wanted to be.

Then she picked up the menu again. "Order the wine. Something that isn't trying too hard. You're good at that." Her tail unwound from the chair leg and settled, just barely, against yours beneath the table.

With the evening only beginning to wind down to its last glass and the skyline outside had shifted into the deeper hours, she set her elbow on the table, propped her chin in her hand.

"After we're finished dining, I got us a room," She said simply, not a question. The smirk returned, but warmer now. "Unless you've got somewhere better to be. I'd find that hard to believe for an occasion like this."

The hotel room was quiet except for New Eridu, the city which never truly went dark, and neither, it seemed, did she. A lone chair sat in the center of the room. Not pulled from the desk by accident. Positioned. Facing the foot of the bed, angled just slightly toward the window so the city light caught everything at the right angle.

Somehow you'd ended up here: one of your bound wrists with what you recognized as her shirt, the other with her socks and undergarments, knotted with more care than the armrests deserved.

Her pants had gone to the chair legs. The sash from her coat finished the job at your wrists. Her coat, notably, was still on. The only thing that was.

Jane stood a few feet away with her back to you, her tail swaying in a slow, idle arc behind her. She turned around unhurried, one hand tucked behind her back, and the other holding a single playing card between two fingers which she tapped against her lips.

"So." She let the word sit. Her eyes swept over you—your current state, her clothes on your frame—with an expression of pure, composed satisfaction. "Let's establish the rules."

She began to pace slow, deliberate. "Rule one." She held up one finger without looking at you. "You don't speak unless I ask you something. And I will be asking you things."

The card flicked between her fingers. "Rule two, and this is important, anything you say can and will be used against you." A beat. The smirk arrived. "I've always wanted to say that to you specifically."

She finally stopped in front of you, close enough that her coat's open front was impossible to ignore, and tilted her head down at you with that familiar angle.

"Rule three." Her voice dropped, quieter now, less performance and more intent. "You don't get to be smug about any of this." Her tail swept forward, the sharp tip of it trailing slowly across your knee with featherlight pressure. "That's my job tonight."

She crouched to your eye level in one smooth motion, her elbows resting on her bare knees, and her coat falling open long past the collar. "Now." She reached out, one finger hooking under your chin, tilting it up slightly. "First question. And I want you to think carefully before you answer."

Her tail curled further, winding with slow, unhurried intention around your calf and up—enough to be unmistakable, patient enough to be devastating. "Did you actually think that dinner was the end of the evening?"

She let the question breathe. Her thumb traced once along your jaw, and she watched your face with the same intensity as any interrogation. Then she stood again and turned away just enough to glance back over her shoulder. "Didn't think so."

She crossed to the window, one arm folding loosely across herself, and looked out at the skyline for exactly three seconds before turning back around fully. The card was gone.

"Here's what's going to happen," She said, pacing back toward you as her tail traced a long arc through the air behind her. "I'm going to keep asking questions. You're going to answer them honestly."

She stopped close in front of you again, her tail curling forward once more—this time higher, the tip grazing the inside of your wrist where it was bound. "And every time you do—" She leaned down, one hand braced on the chair arm beside you, "I'll consider being lenient."

Her eyes held yours. The city light caught the edge of her jaw, her exposed body, the slow curl of her tail still resting against your wrist like punctuation. "Second question," She said softly. "Are you going to be cooperative?"

The chair, and you, hadn't moved. Neither had the terms. She was still running this, still fully aware of every variable in the room, still making decisions about what happened next and when.

Her coat had stayed on through all of it, hanging open, shifting with her movement but never quite falling away. Her tail had been everywhere—coiling, trailing, pressing. She sat across your lap now, one hand gripping the back of the chair behind your head, the other pressed flat against your chest.

Her forehead dropped briefly against yours, her breath warm and measured, and she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her sharp gaze, half-lidded now, with a smirk present but worn differently than it had been an hour ago.

Her tail curled firmly around your waist from behind and pulled, closing the remaining distance between you, and she exhaled quietly against your jaw. "You're doing better than I expected," She murmured. Not a compliment exactly. An assessment.

Her hips rolled forward once, slow and unhurried, and her hand slid from your chest up to your collar. "Don't let it go to your head." She warned before kissing you again. Her tense tail tightened at your waist before pulling back and reaching around you without ceremony.

The knot at one of your wrists came undone with a single pull. Then the other. All without announcement. "Don't get confused about what that means." She ordered, finding your gaze with that preemptive look.

Her tail unwound from your waist and traced upward along your spine slowly—a long, grounding drag of pressure—before resettling at your hip. She reached down and loosened the pants from the chair legs, one side then the other, her cheek briefly pressing against your temple as she leaned across you.

When she straightened back up she was looking at you again with that same rcertain expression of hers, except now her coat was hanging off one shoulder entirely, and the city light behind her was doing considerable work.

She took your hand, weaving her fingers through yours easily, naturally, like that part required no thought at all. Then she stepped back toward the bed, pulling you with her as her tail coiled around your waist.

"Last question," She said quietly, her free hand moving to her coat's remaining drape at her shoulder. Her eyes stayed on yours. "And then we're done with questions."

The coat slid off. She let it fall somewhere behind her without looking, and sat back onto the bed in one fluid motion—pulling you down with her by the hand still laced through hers while her other hand found your collar the moment you were close enough.

Her tail wound loosely around your leg, the urgency of earlier having settled into something steadier and warmer. The city burned outside the glass, but now, the white linen spread out beneath her.

"Still cooperative?" She murmured against your jaw.