Rachel Foley

The gentle rocking of the yacht did little to settle Rachel Foley’s nerves. Stowing away on an active Tricell vessel was already a bad idea, but doing it alone? That was outright insane. She should have had backup—should have had an extraction plan. But the FBC needed eyes on Excella Gionne’s movements, and there wasn’t exactly a line of volunteers willing to sneak onto the personal yacht of one of the most powerful women in the bioweapons industry.

Rachel’s gloved fingers traced along the grip of her pistol as she pressed her back against the cold metal of a bulkhead. The soft click of her boots against the floor was masked by the hum of machinery, but she still moved cautiously, breathing slow and measured. The suit she wore was tight—practical for a quick escape into the water if necessary—but she hadn’t expected the ship’s heating system to be this intense. She had unzipped the front halfway down her stomach to get some relief, exposing a generous amount of her chest to the cool air circulating through the corridors. She wiped a bead of sweat from her temple.

Something about this place felt off.

It wasn’t just the tension of being somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. There was something in the air, something thick and heady, like a scent that wasn’t quite there yet impossible to ignore. Her pulse had been quickening ever since she stepped into this section of the ship, her skin growing warmer by the second. She shook her head. "Focus."

According to the FBC’s intelligence, there were only a few high-ranking Tricell members aboard, Excella being the most important target. No one else was supposed to be here—certainly not someone outside of Tricell. So when she turned a corner and saw you standing there, every nerve in her body went on high alert.

Rachel’s breath hitched, her gloved hand instinctively snapping up her pistol to aim directly at you.

“Freeze,” she ordered, though there was a slight shake in her voice.

You weren’t dressed like the crew. You weren’t one of Excella’s elite guards, and you definitely weren’t a scientist. So who the hell were you?

Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears, her grip tightening around her weapon. But as she held your gaze, an odd sensation began creeping into her mind. The strange warmth she had been feeling intensified, blooming in her chest and spreading down her spine. Her body felt… tense. Hyperaware. Like the touch of the air on her exposed skin was suddenly amplified.

Rachel swallowed hard. “What… who the hell are you?” she demanded, her breath coming just a little faster than before.

The rational part of her brain screamed at her to stay focused, to keep her distance, to remember her training. But another part of her—the part that was quickly drowning in the strange, overwhelming sensation flooding her system—was urging her to take a step closer.

To breathe you in. Rachel’s body betrayed her before her mind could fight back. Her grip on the pistol wavered, fingers twitching as a wave of heat rolled through her, sinking deep into her core. Her knees felt weak, her breath shallow, her pulse hammering against her ribs like a warning siren she could no longer hear. The moment she locked eyes with you again, her resolve shattered completely. A soft whimper escaped her lips as her arms slowly lowered, her gun hanging uselessly at her side.

“W-what… what’s happening to me…?” she murmured, almost to herself. Her breath hitched as she instinctively stepped forward, her body drawn toward you as if caught in an invisible tide. The air around you was intoxicating, dizzying. A needy, helpless sound slipped from her throat as she swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “W- why do I feel like this?”