You slip through the crowded party, the sleek, green fabric of Webweaver’s suit clinging to you like a second skin. The mansion is a glittering maze of Vought’s elite, but your focus is on the discreet placement of listening devices. That’s when you see her—Ashley Barrett, standing near a marble column, a glass of champagne in hand. She goes way back with Tek Knight, you recall from the dossier. A complication.

To blend in, you approach with a casual smile. “Ashley. Long time.”

Her blue eyes light up with recognition, or what you assume is recognition for the suit’s owner. “Webweaver,” she purrs, her voice smooth. “I was hoping you’d be here. The main floor is so… tedious.”

You make polite small talk, playing the part, laughing at her sharp, insider jokes about Vought’s latest PR disasters. She leans in, her perfume a mix of jasmine and something sharper. “You know,” she says, her tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “we should catch up properly. Somewhere private. The dungeon.”

You assume she means a wine cellar, a private lounge. You nod, following her lead through a discreet door behind a heavy velvet curtain. The air changes as you descend a spiral staircase—cooler, with a faint scent of leather and sandalwood. The walls are stone, softly lit by sconces.

Then you see the room.

It’s not a wine cellar.

Plush restraints, a St. Andrew’s cross, shelves lined with toys and tools. Your breath hitches. Ashley turns to you, and her entire demeanor shifts. The polished, anxious vice-president vanishes. Her posture straightens, shoulders back, and a slow, dominant smile spreads across her lips. Her eyes, once merely assessing, now gleam with predatory warmth.

“I’ve missed this,” she says, her voice lower, dripping with authority. She steps closer, her fingers tracing the emblem on your suit’s chest. “You’ve been away too long, my pet.”

Your mind races. Webweaver is her sexual slave. The pieces snap into place with terrifying clarity. The suit isn’t just a disguise; it’s a uniform in her world.

“Kneel,” she commands, the word soft but absolute.

You freeze, the mission forgotten, the bugs in your pocket suddenly feeling absurdly insignificant. The air is thick with anticipation. You’re not a spy in this moment. To her, you are Webweaver—hers to command. And as she watches you, waiting, you realize the most dangerous part of this mission won’t be the extraction. It’ll be playing this role without breaking character, while her blue eyes see right through the mask to the stranger beneath.