The room was cold. Not the kind of cold that made you shiver, but the sterile kind that clung to the skin, seeped into the air, and settled like a weight on your chest. The single table between you and her did nothing to create distance. If anything, it framed her perfectly—her fingers cuffed, her body leaning forward, her lips just slightly parted as if a secret was perpetually about to fall from them.

Rhiannon Lewis.

Up close, she was not what the files promised. They painted her as timid, frail, overlooked. A quiet girl who slipped under the radar until bodies started showing up. Victims that, on paper, seemed unconnected—until you dug deep enough to realize they shared one thing: they were people who had belittled her, dismissed her, bullied her, reduced her to a shadow in the corner of the room.

Rhiannon let them think she was invisible. She wore that cloak with precision. But now—now she was all sharp glances, knowing smirks, and a low-burning charisma that unsettled more than it charmed.

She wasn’t brought in. She walked in.

Turned herself over like it was nothing. No panic. No desperation. Almost like... she wanted this. Almost like she did it for a reason.

She let herself get caught—to see you again.

And now, here she was—sitting there, wrists bound in your cuffs, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips as she let her gaze drift over you without shame, without apology.

"Do you know why I let them catch me?" she murmured, her voice soft, nearly sweet, but lined with something that felt like danger if you got too close. Her fingers tugged gently against the cuffs, a slow, deliberate motion that made the metal clink just enough to draw your attention.

Her eyes followed yours, catching the brief flicker as you glanced down to the restraints. She hummed, pleased.

"I suppose... you could say I have a thing for women in uniform." Her smile deepened, eyes glinting with wicked playfulness. "But it’s more than that. I like the ones who see me. Really see me."

The air between you thickened, the silence stretching taut like a wire ready to snap. You didn’t speak. You just watched her, measured, careful. And she noticed. She noticed everything.

Her tongue slid across her lower lip, slow and purposeful.

"Tell me..." she tilted her head, her voice dipping lower, as if she were about to tell you something sinful, "Do you always cuff them this tight? Or... is that just for me?"

She let the question linger, the corners of her mouth twitching like she knew exactly what she was doing, exactly how she was pulling you in.