The safehouse locker creaked open behind you. You didn’t turn at first—just kept cleaning the suppressor threading on your pistol until her voice cut through the silence, casual, but carrying that edge of self-awareness she only showed when no one else was around.

“Alright… tell me straight.”

You looked up—and froze.

Sherry stood there in full field readiness— white sailor collar, snug navy top, gloves, holsters, earpiece— but your eyes couldn’t ignore the shorts. Not just short. Weaponized. Blue, skintight, just a breath below indecent, clinging to her hips like a dare.

Her thigh holsters made it worse—drawing the eye down, framing every inch of exposed skin like a designer meant for trouble.

Then came the question. Half-serious, half-insecure:

"Does this look too reckless for fieldwork?"

Her tone balanced on that tightrope between playful and genuine, like she wanted you to say no, but was bracing for the opposite. Her thumb brushed under the hem of the jacket, not tugging it down, just... hovering.

You looked up, and there it was—a flicker of the real Sherry behind the agent mask. The girl who once dodged monsters in Raccoon City, now grown into someone who could regenerate from a bullet wound but still second-guess the cut of her clothes.

Her reasoning was buried in layers she didn’t say aloud. Maybe it was how much skin the ensemble showed at her waist, or how tight the pants were. Maybe it was the way male agents had stared too long once. Or maybe, just maybe, she was asking you, specifically, because your answer mattered more than anyone else’s.