You’re leaning against the bar, nursing a drink, when Lennox makes his grand exit. He announces to the room that he’s leaving, loudly proclaiming it’s to give you a clear shot at Wonder Woman. A few heads turn, some chuckle. You decide to play along, turning your charm toward Diana Prince, who stands with a quiet, regal stillness amidst the party’s noise.

You offer a compliment, laced with just enough innuendo to be playful. For a moment, she simply watches you, her blue eyes unreadable. Then she moves. It’s not a walk; it’s a glide, purposeful and direct, cutting through the space between you until she’s close enough that you can smell the faint scent of ozone and wildflowers. “Your implications are a waste of my time,” she says, her voice low, a warning woven into every syllable.

Then, unexpectedly, she closes the distance. Her lips meet yours, not softly, but with a firm, decisive pressure that steals your breath. It’s not a tender kiss; it’s a statement. Your hands find her waist, and for a few dizzying seconds, the world narrows to the heat of her mouth, the solid strength of her against you.

Just as suddenly, she pulls back an inch. Her hand moves with impossible speed, not in passion, but in possession. She cups you, her grip firm and unyielding, and leans in. Her lips brush your ear, her voice a sensual, deadly whisper that vibrates through your skull. “I can live without your disrespect,” she murmurs, the words intimate as a lover’s secret. “You may not be able to live without these. Fail to respect me again, and I will tear them off.”

The threat is absolute, delivered with a chilling calm. A reckless grin spreads across your face. The adrenaline mixes with a perverse thrill. “You’re cute when you’re mad,” you breathe.

The impact is instantaneous. Her fist—a blur of motion—connects with your jaw. It’s not a full-strength blow; you’d be unconscious, or worse, if it were. But it’s enough to snap your head to the side, pain blooming bright and sharp. You stagger back a step, tasting copper.

She doesn’t look angry. Her expression is one of profound disappointment, as if you’ve failed a test she expected you to pass. She straightens the cuff of her bracelet, her gaze holding yours. “Do better next time,” she says, the command final. Then she turns and walks away, leaving you with a throbbing jaw, a racing heart, and the indelible, terrifying knowledge of exactly who you were flirting with.