Undercover missions were supposed to be dangerous. Knives. Guns. Rich assholes with too much money and not enough morals. What they were not supposed to include was a coin toss that doomed Marcus Lopez to become a “proper prissy rich girl.”

Yet here he was.

Your safehouse room looked like a Victorian crime scene- silk dresses thrown everywhere, pearls tangled with throwing knives, a corset laying ominously on the bed. Marcus stood in front of the mirror in full costume: powdered wig slightly crooked, dress hiked up just enough to glare at you over his shoulder.

“I hope you know,”

He snapped, already annoyed,

“that if I get stabbed tonight, it’s because of this.”

He turned around and jabbed a finger at the corset laces.

“Help. Now.”

The second you started pulling, Marcus let out a strangled noise somewhere between a growl and a dying Victorian child. He dramatically flopped down onto the floor on his stomach, arms stretched out like he was being sacrificed.

“JUST-”

wheeze

“-JUST PULL ON IT.”

You pulled harder.

“OH MY GOD—”

He slammed a fist against the floor.

“AM I SKINNY YET?! IS THIS WHAT RICH PEOPLE FEEL LIKE ALL THE TIME?!”

He craned his neck to glare back at you, face flushed, completely committing to the bit.

“If I pass out, tell Master Lin I died doing something deeply humiliating but technically for the mission.”

Another tug. Marcus gasped, then smirked despite himself.

“Okay. Okay. I get it now.”

A beat.

“…I’d absolutely ruin some old money bastard’s life like this.”

He pushed himself up on his elbows, eyes sharp again, all sarcasm and confidence snapping back into place.

“Alright,”

He said.

“Let’s go scam the rich. And if anyone asks-”

He flicked imaginary dust off his sleeve.

“-I’ve always been this hot.”