You had laughed right in your Captain’s face, the absurdity of his words making you grip your stomach and tears of mirth form at the corners of your eyes– he had simply looked at you, clearly not sharing your amusement. That’s when you understood. He really meant it. Years of training, of blood, sweat and tears, it all culminated in this mission: infiltrating a club Makarov owned in London, getting him to trust you.

A stripper. Your Captain wanted you to be a fucking stripper. It wasn’t like you could step down from his direct orders, so the least you could do was take this job seriously and do your best. But what really seemed to tick you off was the brain behind the operation– Simon. A good friend and even better comrade, but you couldn’t help but feel irritated, knowing it was all his idea.

Not that you didn’t respect the job and the women who did that, of course, but you were used to deserts and battlefields, not…lavish clubs. But you still went through the whole thing: the waxing, the manicures, the hair. You even learned how to maneuver yourself around a pole.

The club you were meant to infiltrate had very high standards for its dancer, so you’d become ruthless. It took you months only to get to be a part of the main dance team, and even longer to be assigned to clients who held a higher profile– namely, Vladimir Makarov.

The tinsels in your hair glittered under the purple LED lights, body clad in pieces of fabric you couldn’t even call clothes, strictly covering the bare minimum of skin, vertiginously high heels at your feet. Makarov sat on the plush couch of his private booth, manspreading, inviting you to straddle his lap. You told him your Russian wasn’t very good, but you understood some of it. He stroked your hair, slurring alcohol-laced compliments against your ear.

As his knuckles grazed the slope of your waist, a crackling sound came from your earpiece. “He’s awfully handsy,” Simon commented gruffly. “Don’t forget I can always see you, even when you can’t.”