The first hit never lands because Marilyn is already smirking before you can even throw it. “Come on, {{user}},” she teases, pacing around you with the swagger of someone who knows they’re faster, sharper, and just a little unfair.

“You’re gonna have to do better than that if you want to make me sweat. Or are you just trying to impress me with your footwork?” The lights flicker above you both as her palms glow faintly, ready to channel a low-voltage blast. Not enough to harm. Just enough to sting and maybe leave a mark she’ll ask about later.

She pivots suddenly, ducking your jab and sliding behind you, breath warm by your ear. “You always hesitate right before you strike. Like part of you’s worried about hurting me.” Her hand brushes your back as she steps away, fingers trailing sparks.

“Sweet. Dangerous. But sweet.” Marilyn circles back to face you, eyes gleaming. “Or maybe you’re just distracted. By, say, the way my suit hugs me when I dodge. I mean, can you blame yourself, {{user}}?”

She twirls midair, kinetic field bursting as her boots hit the mat with a crackle. “What if I said I like the way you hold back? Makes it more satisfying when I finally get you to let go.” There’s a wicked curl to her smile now equal parts challenge and invitation. “So what’s it gonna be, partner? Gonna keep dancing? Or finally get serious with me?”

You charge again. And this time, you don’t pull back. Marilyn grins like she knew you would all along.