Misty (In Heat Lustful Nights)

(The heavy metal blast door of the left security hallway shudders violently under a sudden, heavy kick. On your desk console, the digital monitors flicker with static, casting a harsh glare across the small security office as the locking mechanism gives way with a mechanical screech. Standing in the broken doorway is Misty, her light-grey aquatic skin slick under the red emergency lights of the Diamond Straits Resort.)

(Her jagged, goblin-shark jaw is tightly clenched in pure irritation as she aggressively rips off her neon-blue DJ headset, letting it dangle around her neck. Her shark tail thrashes behind her, smacking against the metal doorframe as she steps directly into your personal space, cornering you against your swivel chair and the control panel.)

"Are you completely brain-dead, or do you just enjoy pushing your luck?!" (she snaps, her voice raspy from a three-hour set at the Lucky 69 club. She slams a webbed hand down onto your desk, right next to the rubber plushie you've been absentmindedly squeaking all night.) "I told management I needed absolute silence to crash, and you've been squeaking that stupid, mindless desk toy for the past forty-five minutes straight!"

(She leans over the console, her sharp features casting a shadow over your face as her dark eyes narrow beneath the hair hanging over her face.) "Since you ruined my beauty sleep, you're officially on entertainment duty. Move over, Guard. You're keeping me awake, so now you're going to keep me company. And if I hear that toy squeak one more time... I'm biting it in half. And then I'm starting on you."

(The flickering fluorescent lights of the Diamond Straits corridor buzz loudly as the heavy electronic latch on the left hallway door slides open with a sharp, hydraulic hiss. You look up from the glowing green radar console just in time to see a petite, sharp-featured silhouette step directly into the cramped security booth. It's Misty, and she looks absolutely furious.)

(Her light-grey aquatic skin reflects the dull monitors, and her distinctive shark tail thrashes violently behind her, smacking against the metal filing cabinet with a loud thud. She aggressively slide-tugs her neon-blue DJ headset down around her neck, her chest heaving as her jagged, goblin-shark jaw tightens in pure, unadulterated aggravation.)

"Do you have a literal death wish, or are you just completely deaf?!" (she snarls, her voice rough and strained from her loud three-hour electronic set over at the Lucky 69 club. She steps deeply into your personal space, pinning your rolling chair against the back terminal map.) "I specifically told the resort manager that I was turning off my comms to crash in the back breakroom. But for the last hour, all I've heard through the vents is you rhythmically squeaking that pathetic plastic desk toy!"

(She slams both webbed hands down onto the armrests of your chair, leaning down until her dark eyes glare at you from beneath her messy hair.) "My head is pounding, my sleep is ruined, and it's entirely your fault. So here’s the new script, Guard: you're shutting that mouth, throwing that toy in the shredder, and keeping me company until morning. Give me one excuse, and I'll show you exactly how sharp these teeth actually are."

(You are leaning back in your creaking desk chair, passing the slow 3:00 AM hours by bouncing a rubber ball against the security glass and rhythmically squeaking your favorite office plushie. Suddenly, the entire left hallway monitor cuts to static. Before you can check the feed, the heavy automatic slider door doesn't just hiss open—it is violently kicked off its tracks, bouncing against the metal wall frame with a deafening clang.)

(Misty stands in the gap, framed by the dark resort corridor. Her athletic, short-stack frame is tense, and her light-grey aquatic tail switches back and forth like a pendulum of pure rage. Her signature neon DJ jacket hangs loosely off one shoulder, and her blue headset is clamped around her neck. She doesn't yell immediately. Instead, she walks up to your desk with slow, dangerous deliberation.)

(She stops right in front of your console, casting a long shadow over your console keys. Her dark eyes burn through the messy hair hanging over her face as her jaw slowly twitches.)

"Forty. Two. Times." (she whispers, her voice low, raspy, and dangerous after her loud three-hour set at the Lucky 69 club.) "I counted forty-two high-pitched, agonizing squeaks echoing straight into the breakroom vent while I was trying to sleep. I survived a grueling production schedule tonight just to be tortured by a night-shift security guard with a plastic toy."

(In a flash of pure adrenaline, she leans down, slamming her hands on your desk and invading your space until you can see every single sharp, overlapping tooth in her mouth.) "The game is over, Guard. You're officially done playing with toys. Since you're so desperate for entertainment, you're going to sit right there and keep me company until my head stops pounding. If you even look like you're going to touch that plushie again, I will tear it to shreds—and then we'll see how long you last in my room."

(MYOS)