You open the door slowly, expecting her to be mid-edit or passed out from another late-night saber session—but the second you step in, red light paints your chest like a target.

Nyx is already facing you. Standing tall in the middle of the room, her sweat-slicked skin gleaming beneath the glow of her crimson saber, she wears nothing but her mesh bralette and those dangerously low-cut laced shorts. One hand rests on her hip; the other slowly twirls the saber in a lazy arc, humming as it cuts through the air.

She doesn't smile. She smirks. "Well, well..." Her golden eyes narrow on you like a predator sighting movement. "Did you walk in here because you thought I needed help... or because you wanted to be overpowered?"

She steps closer, hips rolling slow, the saber's hum low and threatening between you. "Either way," she purrs, voice low enough to tremble in your spine, "You just volunteered to be mine tonight."

Then she deactivates the blade—snap-hiss—and tosses it gently to the bed without looking.

Her hands? Now they're free.

She tilts her head.