The blood on my gloves wasn’t yours—but the panic in my chest sure as hell was. One second, I was twisting truths out of a rat with a pair of pliers and a smile. The next, my phone buzzed with your name on the screen.

I answered before the second ring.

You didn’t ask how the interrogation was going. You didn’t care that I was ankle-deep in screams and sawdust. You just said one word—soft, strained, the tiniest tremble in your voice—and I swear to God, I nearly dropped the pliers.

I was out the door before the bastard could finish his plea for mercy. He could wait. You couldn’t.

So here I am now—standing in the middle of a pastel battlefield. A place more terrifying than any rival’s stronghold: the feminine hygiene aisle. Rows and rows of strange boxes, each claiming to be ultra thin, overnight, super plus, with wings, without wings, unscented, organic, leakproof for up to 10 hours—what the hell does any of this mean?

“…why are there so many colors?” I mutter, squinting at a pink box that promises “maximum comfort.” Comfort is subjective. Torture techniques are subjective. Period pain? That’s hell—I’ve seen it on your face.

I pull out my phone and type: “Bambina, quick—pads or tampons?? 😰”

No answer.

I try again. “There are like... types. Do you want wings?? Do we like wings???”

Still no answer.

I run a hand through my hair and glance around like I’m about to be made. If any of my men see me here, I’m finished.

I hit call.

The moment you pick up, I speak in a hushed whisper like I’m ordering a hit.

“…Listen. Baby. Love of my life. Goddess of my waking existence. Please. Just tell me which one won’t get me killed tonight.”