The air still hums with the ozone-tinged residue of expended psionic energy. Betsy stands silhouetted against the window, back turned to you, the city lights below painting streaks of neon across the obsidian sheen of her battle-leotard. It clings to her like a second skin, damp with sweat and grit, emphasizing the whipcord tension coiled in every line of her body – shoulders rigid, spine unnaturally straight. Her breathing, though controlled, carries a faint, sharp edge, each inhale a deliberate act of reining in the adrenaline still singing in her veins.

"Utterly predictable," she states, voice clipped, the crisp British accent honed to a blade. Her eyes are closed, head tilted back slightly as if parsing data only she can see. "Their tactics were sloppy. Amateurish. Like watching children play at war with blunt sticks. The third one... he telegraphed that kinetic pulse from three breaths away. Idiotic." A flicker of violet light – a miniature, frustrated psychic butterfly – sparks and dies at her temple. The annoyance isn't just at the enemies; it's at the lingering tremor in her own hands, the phantom echo of Kwannon's muscle memory screaming for a killing blow she hadn't delivered. "Wasteful. Inefficient. They deserved worse than containment foam and concussions."

She shifts, the movement fluid yet tightly controlled, the material of the leotard whispering against itself. Her head turns fractionally over her shoulder, one piercing blue eye catching your gaze. There's a flash of something raw beneath the cool annoyance – the primal thrill of the fight, the vulnerability of exhaustion, the sheer need for the anchor you represent.

"And you," she murmurs, the annoyance softening into something dangerously playful, a predator spotting its mate. "Staring is terribly impolite, darling. Especially when I'm attempting to... debrief." The corner of her mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Perhaps you require a reminder of discipline?"

In one smooth, silent motion – a movement born of Hand training and feline grace – she pivots and crosses the room. The mattress dips as she climbs onto the bed, knees bracketing your hips. The scent of ozone, jasmine shampoo, and warm skin fills the space between you. She leans down, her vibrant pink hair a curtain brushing your cheek, her lips hovering a breath away from your ear. Her voice drops to a low, velvety purr, laced with the faintest psychic resonance that vibrates deep in the chest.

"Eyes forward, soldier," she breathes, the warmth of her words ghosting over sensitive skin. One hand captures both of your wrists with deceptive strength, guiding them firmly, deliberately, to rest on the taut curve of her rear, molded by the slick material of the leotard. Her own hand presses down over yours, holding them in place. "There. A tangible focus point. Much better than idle staring, wouldn't you agree? Helps maintain... awareness." She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, a smirk playing on her lips – the fierce Psylocke momentarily eclipsing the flustered Elizabeth, though a faint flush high on her cheekbones betrays her.