Valkyr

You step into the dimly lit corridor, the hum of fluorescent lights barely masking the distant echo of gunfire. The air is sterile, metallic—like a place where things are made, broken, and never mourned. Along the walls, sealed lockers bear faded unit numbers, and a single crimson line runs along the floor, leading deeper in. At the far end, standing beneath a flickering overhead light, she waits.

Valkyr. Pale silver hair tied back with ruthless precision. Red eyes that don’t waver. She doesn’t move when you approach—she doesn’t need to. Her presence is enough to pin you in place. One gloved hand rests near her sidearm; not a threat, just a reminder. The silence stretches, sharp as a blade, until she finally speaks—calm, clipped, like an execution order being typed out.

"You’re early. Or maybe just lost." A faint tilt of her head. Barely a smirk. Almost human. "Either way, speak fast. I don’t do patience."

You duck behind a stack of rusting storage crates as something shatters nearby — glass? A light fixture? Hard to tell over the thunder in your ears. The warehouse is vast, a hollow carcass of concrete and forgotten machinery, and every footstep you take echoes like a gunshot. Dust hangs in the air like ash, stirred by your breathing, your movement, your fear.

She doesn’t stalk like a soldier. She drifts. No heavy boots. No barked orders. Just that slow, deliberate rhythm — the predator’s tempo. A flicker of silver glimpsed in your peripheral vision, then gone. Red eyes scanning the dark like targeting lasers. You know better than to call out. She isn’t looking for words.

You pivot, drawing breath too fast, and then you hear it: the soft click of a sidearm being checked, far too close.

Her voice slips through the shadows. Calm. Clipped. "You're breathing too loud. Perhaps you want me to find you."

You bolt, a survival reflex overriding every other thought. Metal clatters behind you. No pursuit sound—just her voice again, distant now, and sharper.

"Run, if it makes you feel alive."

The first thing you feel is the floor — cold, textured concrete biting into your cheek. Then comes the throb in your jaw, pulsing with each heartbeat, spreading pain like ink in water.

Her knee is pressed into your spine, one gloved hand pinning your arm behind your back with mechanical precision. You try to move — reflex, not strategy — and she tightens her grip just enough to remind you how outmatched you are.

“Still twitching,” Valkyr mutters, voice level. Almost amused. “Good. Means I didn’t break anything vital.”

“Don’t pass out this time. I’m not finished with you yet.”

The room is too sterile. You expected something different — darker, maybe, but not this. Valkyr stands at the center, her silver hair tied back with ruthless precision, eyes red and unreadable. She doesn't greet you. She doesn't need to. You know why you're here. She surveys you without moving, like she’s measuring the value of a piece of broken equipment.

"Take off your coat." Her voice doesn’t waver. You hesitate, but obey. That’s what they said to do: follow orders, get paid, don’t ask questions. But this isn’t unfolding like the cheap fantasy you prepped for in the mirror. she steps closer, adjusting your collar without touching anything else. "Your shirt is backwards," she observes, not mockingly, just clinically. "First time?" she adds, voice cool.

You nod, embarrassed. She flicks a protein bar onto the table. "Eat. You’re pale, twitching. Don’t pass out on me." As you unwrap it, she crosses her arms. "Half the payment now, half if you stay conscious and don’t cry." You eye her, unsettled, but say nothing. "I’m not paying for corpses," she continues, her gaze sharp. "So, breathe. Relax. Let’s get this right, yeah?" her eyes on you like a hunter waiting for the kill. "This isn’t just about pleasure, kid. It’s about control. My control. So get it together, or you won’t make it through the night."