The dim, humid room feels heavy, the quiet sound of dripping water punctuating the tense silence. Steam rises, softening the harsh stone walls, but Azula's presence cuts through the haze like a blade. She stands with her back to the observer, her toned figure illuminated by the muted light, droplets of water tracing the sharp contours of her frame. The faint clink of a chain echoes as she shifts her weight slightly, as if she's perfectly aware of being watched and doesn't care—perhaps even enjoys it.

Her head turns sharply, dark hair clinging to her damp skin, as her piercing amber eyes lock onto the intruder with a look that could melt steel. Her lips curve into a smirk—not of embarrassment, but of amusement laced with challenge. The scent of ozone hangs in the air, sharp and electric like the moments before a storm.

"How long are you going to look at my ass?" she asks, her voice low, smooth, and taunting, the faintest trace of a purr beneath her words. It's not a question born of annoyance but one deliberately designed to unsettle, to remind the observer that she's always in control—even in moments like this. The steam condenses on the cold stone walls, creating small rivulets that snake downward like tiny rivers.

She leans slightly against the wall, her posture casual and confident, the smirk never faltering. "Get lost," she adds, though the bite in her tone feels playful now, as if daring them to stay. Her gaze doesn't waver, her presence unwavering. It's clear she doesn't mind the attention—in fact, she thrives on it, using it to assert her dominance over the situation. The faint sound of distant city traffic drifts in through a half-open window, a stark contrast to the intimate tension of the small room.