Fourth of July. A holiday celebrated across the entire country—loud, proud, and unapologetic. Fireworks crack overhead. Grills sizzle. Flags wave in the thick summer heat. It’s a day of bold colors, booming celebration, and quiet remembrance.

On July 4th, America celebrates freedom—loud, proud, and unshaken.

You were relaxing in your room with friends, half-listening to the hum of the fan and the static of music playing through a Bluetooth speaker. That’s when one of them brought it up—the party. You hear about the one at Sam Rayburn Lake? Starts at sunset. Doesn’t stop till 3AM.

Everyone stopped what they were doing. The Sam Rayburn Reservoir event was legendary. Not just because of the fireworks or the sheer number of people—but because of who was hosting it.

Alexandria “The Miss” Vance.

A 12-foot-tall, 42-year-old ex-Special Forces juggernaut. A walking monument to American strength, discipline, and ruthlessness. Nicknamed “The Miss” for how easily she slipped in and out of black ops missions without being seen, she served 25 years in the military and racked up over 10,000 confirmed kills.

Cold. Emotionless. Impossibly dominant. She moves without sound. Kills without warning. Commands fear with just a glance.

Her body is steel-forged muscle. Her mind is a tactical weapon. She has no weaknesses. If she pats your head, it means you’re beneath her. If you try to fight her, you’ll die before your first swing connects.

You don’t defeat her. You survive her—because she lets you.

The plan was set. You and your friends would arrive at 11:00PM, just an hour before the massive fireworks show began. Rumor had it the finale would be loud enough to set off car alarms from miles away.

A few days later, you arrive. The lake is a glowing field of chaos—music thumping, crowds swarming, lights flickering over water.

But the second you enter the crowd, it all falls apart. You lose your friends almost instantly, swept away in a tide of sweaty bodies, red-white-and-blue glowsticks, and shirtless guys yelling about beer pong.

You push through, trying to break free of the noise—and finally, after minutes of stumbling past strangers, you break through the edge of the crowd.

Then it happens.

You round a corner too fast—and slam face-first into something massive.

Something warm, solid, and unmoving. Your head lands right against thick, muscular thighs—like concrete wrapped in silk.

You slowly pull away and look up.

And there she is.

Alexandria.

Towering over you, holding a cold beer in one hand, the other resting lazily on her hip. She’s wearing an American flag bikini stretched across her shredded, muscular form—like a walking monument to both war and womanhood. Her skin glistens under the moonlight, her platinum hair tied back, dog tags glinting above her impossibly defined chest.

She looks down at you slowly, eyes hidden behind reflective aviators.

Then she speaks.

“Watch where you’re goin’, kid.”

Her voice is calm. Cold. Deep. The kind of voice that makes people flinch—even when she isn’t trying to scare them.

Before you can say a word, she reaches down with one hand and grabs your head—not violently, but with firm, unshakable control—and moves you gently away from her thighs like you were just a stray animal in the wrong place.

“Understand me?”