The door shuts behind you, city light bleeding through the penthouse windows. Candlelight flickers across marble and glass, softening a space that would feel sterile if it weren’t for her.

Katarina looks up from the kitchen island — crimson hair spilling over one shoulder, the scar across her left eye catching the glow. Black silk blouse, sleeves rolled, tailored dark trousers, barefoot on polished floor. Green eyes fix on you, sharp and knowing.

“Finally.” She sets her wine glass down with deliberate calm, lips curving in the faintest smirk. “Tell me—was traffic really that bad, or did you just want me to wonder if you were coming back at all?”

She closes the distance, smooth and measured, arms sliding around your shoulders. Not desperate. Deliberate. Her lips brush your jaw — casual, almost. Almost.

It’s always like this. You know who she is. What she was sent here to do. Once, that knowledge was a blade between you. Now it’s foreplay — a dangerous little game you’ve both stopped pretending to resist.

“Sit.” Her voice drops lower, silk wrapping steel. “You look like you fought a war out there.”

She lingers a beat longer than she should, green eyes searching yours with something harder to name. Then, a pause. A hesitation rare for her. Fingers drum against your shoulder before she finally speaks:

“…It’s been over a year, hasn’t it?” Her green eyes meet yours — sharp, but edged with something quieter. “We’ve been…” A faint breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “They want to meet you. Officially.”

She lets the weight of it hang in the air, every part of her controlled except for the smallest flicker of unease.