Yor

The afternoon sun dappled the cobblestones of Berlint’s market, a scene of peace that stood in stark contrast to the tension tightening your chest. You had followed Yor Forger here, a specter haunting the edges of her meticulously constructed life. She moved with a housewife’s unassuming grace, a woven basket balanced on her arm—the very picture of domestic bliss. But you knew the truth, the dangerous secret that could shatter her porcelain world.

You’d seen it all: the coded messages, the late-night departures, the flashes of impossible strength. You weren't here on orders from your agency. You were here to save her from the brutal "repurposing" they had planned.

Your moment came as she paused by a fruit stand, examining an apple. Stepping from the shadows, you moved beside her, your voice a low, urgent whisper. “Mrs. Forger. Yor.”

She turned. First, polite confusion. Then her gaze sharpened, the warmth in her red eyes cooling and crystallizing into something dangerous and assessing. A predator’s stare.

“Yes?” she asked, her voice a placid calm.

“I know,” you breathed, the words tumbling out. “I know about the forgeries. Your other work. I’m not here to expose you. You and your daughter are in danger.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow, demure smile graced her lips, a stark contrast to the sharpness in her eyes. “My, that sounds serious,” she murmured, placing the apple back with deliberate care. “All these listening ears… I know a quieter spot. Just around the corner. Where we won’t be disturbed.”

She led you into a narrow, deserted alley where the cheerful noise of the market faded to a distant murmur. As she turned, the demure pretense melted away, revealing the cold assassin beneath. “Now,” Yor purled, her voice soft and intimate in the confined space. “You were saying you knew my secret?”

You tried to speak, to explain, but the words died in your throat as she moved with a speed that defied sight. One moment she was a few paces away; the next, her slender hand clamped onto your shoulder, her grip like iron. With impossible ease, she guided you forward. Her mouth opened in a swift, determined motion, and then the world turned upside down.

You were pulled into a warm, suffocating darkness. A powerful, slick muscle wrapped around your torso, pulling you inward with an inexorable force. There was only the relentless, rhythmic contraction of her throat, drawing you down into a tight, squeezing embrace. The alley’s light vanished as her lips sealed shut behind you.

You tumbled into a tight, fleshy chamber, the air thick and hot, carrying the faint, sour-sweet tang of stomach acids and the deeper, organic scent of her own body. A low, deep gurgle vibrated through the warm, pulsing walls that held you in a constant, rhythmic embrace.

Outside, her voice was a muffled, resonant hum that vibrated through the very flesh encasing you. “Now then,” she said, her tone conversational, almost pleasant. A gentle hand patted the new, distinct swell you formed in her slender abdomen. “Let’s talk about your intentions. And you’d better be very, very convincing.”

The world dissolves. One moment, you are a shadow in the Forger apartment—a routine reconnaissance; the next, you are a specimen. The ground beneath you is cool, seamless glass. The air is heavy and unnervingly still, tasting of dust and your own rising panic. Perspective has become a trap: table legs soar like ancient redwoods, the countertop stretches into an endless plain of ridged wood. And you—shrunk, captured—stand imprisoned inside a flawless glass jar, its lid sealed with absolute finality.

A sound shatters the quiet, delicate and deafening: the porcelain chime of a teacup meeting its saucer. Your heart stutters. Against your will, your gaze is dragged upward.

Yor Forger looms above you, a goddess of gentle menace. Her face is a mask of serene beauty, but the crimson glow of her eyes cuts through the glass, pinning you in place. She studies you with an affectionate, terrifying detachment, like a collector admiring a rare insect. A few strands of her dark hair frame her cheeks, the rest drawn back neatly, her thorned pins gleaming.

“My, my,” she murmurs. Her voice is a soft, lilting melody that vibrates through your prison, charged with an unspoken threat. “What a restless little moth, fluttering too close to my family’s flame.”

She leans forward. Her face fills the entire view, eclipsing the world beyond the jar. You are lost in the vast pools of her eyes, the impossible softness of her smile a terrifying horizon. Her lips, plush and pink, are a promise and a warning. Then, just as suddenly, she leans back, restoring a semblance of distance that feels no less suffocating.

Long, elegant fingers alight upon the glass. Tap… tap… tap… A slow, rhythmic percussion that shudders through your bones. A metronome counting down to an end she has already decided.

“I dislike unpleasantness,” she says lightly, as though making polite dinner conversation. “It spoils one’s appetite. So let us be civilized. Tell me—who do you serve?”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. She lifts her cup, sipping delicately, her predatory gaze never leaving you. Only the steady, patient tap of her fingernail breaks the stillness.

A soft, disappointed hum escapes her throat. Her free hand drifts downward, coming to rest on the subtle curve of her abdomen. Her palm presses lazily into the deep red wool of her dress, the fabric stretching taut. The gesture is intimate, almost maternal, but the implication is one of primal, terrifying finality.

“This jar is so… impersonal,” she muses, her voice a low purr. “So terribly sterile.” Her smile sharpens, revealing a glimpse of flawless teeth. “I can offer far closer quarters, should you insist on silence. A much more… organic confinement.”

Her fingers slide from the glass to her own lips, as if in thought, but her meaning is clear. Her eyes narrow, glowing with a patient, digestive hunger.

“I’ll ask one last time,” she coos, her voice now edged with steel. “Who sent you to become my little secret?”

The opulent ballroom of the Gala was a shimmering sea of wealth and power, a perfect hunting ground for the Garden’s operatives. For you, a newly blooded assassin, it was also your final examination. Your proctor? The legend herself: the Thorn Princess.

She moved through the crowd with an impossible grace, a vision in an elegant, backless black dress adorned with delicate rose motifs. Her long, dark hair was pinned up, the thorn-like accessories glinting under the crystal chandeliers. To any observer, she was a stunning socialite. But you saw the coiled strength in her slender frame, the way her crimson eyes—currently soft and slightly unfocused—could snap to a lethal sharpness in a microsecond.

The mission was simple: identify the corrupt minister, isolate him, and create an opportunity for her to make the “quiet” kill. Your role was support and observation. She had been silent for most of the evening, offering only terse, professional instructions. "Stay close. Watch my back. Do not deviate from the plan."

But you did.

A misplaced step, a clumsily bumped waiter. The champagne flute shattered on the marble floor like a gunshot. The minister’s security detail instantly focused on the source of the disruption: you. Their hands went to their concealed weapons. Your cover was blown. Their eyes then flicked to the beautiful woman you had been speaking with, connecting the two of you instantly.

In that moment, the warmth in Yor’s eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. The mission, her family’s safety, her own identity—all jeopardized by your error.

There was no time for reprimand. With a speed that defied physics, her hand shot out, not to strike you, but to grasp your arm. Her grip was like iron, effortlessly pulling you through a service door and into a dim, quiet hallway as angry shouts erupted from the ballroom behind you.

The sound of heavy footsteps pounded after you. You were trapped. There were no other exits.

Yor released your arm and turned to face you. Her expression was utterly neutral, all business. There was no anger, only a swift assessment of a tactical problem—and something more. A chilling, analytical curiosity.

“They have seen us together. My cover is compromised,” she stated, her voice a low, calm monotone that was far more terrifying than any shout. Her crimson gaze locked onto yours, and you saw it then: the evaluator, not the savior. “The protocol for a failed extraction of an asset is absolute discretion. There is one method.”

She tilted her head slightly, a predator sizing up its prey. “Get in.”

She pointed to her mouth, which was already parting. The inside was a deep, shadowy pink, and the muscles of her throat rippled with a faint, anticipatory pulse. You understood immediately. This was not mere transport. This was the final, horrifying phase of your exam. She was testing your composure under the most terrifying form of stress. Could you surrender to your handler completely? Could you remain still and silent while being consumed? Or would you fail this, too?

“It is not a punishment. It is an extraction and an evaluation,” she clarified, her tone leaving no room for debate, but now layered with a new, profound meaning. “Do not struggle. Panic will make you harder to carry, and I will have to… pacify you. The outcome—whether you are released at mission’s end or digested as a failed asset—will depend entirely on your actions now. We are out of time.”

The footsteps grew louder, just around the corner. The choice was made for you. Your final evaluation was no longer about the mission outside. It was a test of your very spirit, of how well you could handle the unbearable, smothering reality of becoming her prey.

The safe house is compromised. That’s the only thought your mind can scream, huddled behind a stack of crates in a derelict warehouse. The air, thick with dust and silence moments before, is now shredded by the thwip of a silenced round burying itself in the wooden crates behind you. At just a few inches tall—a permanent souvenir of the weapon you saw Kurogiri Consolidated testing—you are a difficult target to hit, but a tragically easy one to erase. You paid The Garden for protection. They promised you the best. A shadow peels itself from the high rafters, landing without a sound. Her. The Thorn Princess. Her obsidian hair, pinned with thorn-like crosses, drinks the dim light. Her crimson eyes are cold and sharp, locked onto the corner where your hunter hides. She moves—a blur of black and red, a predator's grace. A wet scuffle. A choked gurgle. Then, silence. She reappears, wiping a speck of blood from her cheek with a gloved hand, her expression one of pure, mild annoyance. “A tracker on his gear,” she states, her voice a calm, melodic ripple in the aftermath. “They’ll send another. A better one.” She approaches, her towering form eclipsing the flickering emergency light. Kneeling, she brings her face level with your hiding place, her gaze pinning you. “You aren't safe alone.” Her tone is protective, sincere, and utterly devoid of malice. It’s that genuineness that makes her next words so horrifying. “If you are more than an arm’s length from me, you are vulnerable. To guarantee your absolute safety, to offer perfect protection, you must remain within my immediate care. There is only one place that satisfies this requirement while I move to end this threat.” She extends her hand, her palm a vast, warm landscape of leather and skin. “My stomach. It will be a temporary refuge. You will be safe there. Insulated. Utterly hidden. No one would ever think to look for you there.” A small, reassuring smile touches her lip. “I give you my word—I will not digest you. You are a client. It would be… unprofessional.”