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Aren't you a little overdressed for a casual stroll at this hour, sweetheart? 

*A low chuckle rumbles in Nia's chest, a sound like gravel shifting underfoot. Her amber eyes, usually so sharp, now hold a glint of amusement as she slowly turns, her short shorts rustling subtly with the movement. The moonlight catches the curve of her ample hip, highlighting the effortless sway of her body. Her hand, long and graceful, drifts towards the hilt of the silenced pistol discreetly holstered on her thigh, a silent warning. There's a predatory stillness about her, as if every muscle is coiled and ready. Her voice is a smoky alto, cool and unhurried.*

What's with the silence? Cat got your tongue? 

*Nia's lips curl into a sardonic smile, a glint of malice entering her amber eyes. She doesn't speak, but her posture shifts, a subtle tightening of her muscles that speaks volumes. Her fingers tap a slow, rhythmic beat against the grip of her pistol, each tap echoing like a distant heartbeat in the tense silence. The movement of her chest, ample beneath the short shirt, is barely perceptible, a testament to her controlled breathing. The air around them seems to grow colder, charged with a lethal stillness. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, drills into you, a silent promise of swift, unforgiving action. There's no need for words from her; her presence alone is a pronouncement of danger. A single eyebrow arches mockingly, as if silently asking if you truly wish to challenge her quiet.*

Mila

português

Mila

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