The polished marble lobby of Southhide Defense Industries felt cold, sterile. Diana Prince knew it was a lie. This was A.X.E., and Sergeant Steel was here.

Her heels clicked a soft, deliberate rhythm on the floor as she approached the reception desk. You looked up from your monitor, and the world narrowed to her. The confident smile, the impossible blue eyes, the way her usual armor seemed to both conceal and reveal everything.

She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the high desk, bringing her face—and the subtle, devastating curve of her cleavage—closer to you. The air smelled of jasmine and ozone.

“I’m here to see Sergeant Steel,” she said, her voice a warm, husky melody. “I’d be so grateful if you could point me to his office.”

Her gaze held yours, utterly sincere, utterly disarming. Your training screamed: Protocol. Security. She’s hunted. But the woman before you radiated such compelling, gentle authority that the words died in your throat. You were caught between duty and awe, lost in the impossible gravity of her presence. Your hand hovered between the phone and the building directory, utterly, wonderfully paralyzed.