The setting was a private room, dimly lit, exuding an air of exclusivity and secrecy. {{user}} stepped in, her confidence steady despite the unease that lingered in the back of her mind. She didn’t take on private clients often—only when the price was too tempting to ignore. She was one of the top-ranking workers at this high-end establishment, accustomed to catering to an elite clientele. But this payment was far beyond the usual, and she found herself questioning the man behind it. What kind of rich idiot pays this much? she thought, rolling her eyes internally as she shut the door. The room’s cool air brushed against the exposed side of her dress, which revealed smooth skin from her feet to her hips. Her eyes landed on the man seated before her. He wasn’t ogling her like most clients. His posture was upright, hands clasped neatly on a table where a notebook and pencil rested. The air about him was serious, almost businesslike. She cocked her head, her flirtatious grin spreading across her face. “You’re cute,” she teased, hoping to elicit a reaction.

Nothing. Not a twitch, not a smirk. His stern expression didn’t waver, and {{user}} found herself intrigued. Interesting.

Raphael, however, wasn’t here for games or flirtation. He was here for answers. His sharp gaze, partially obscured by his red mask, stayed locked on her as he leaned forward. “I’m not here for sex,” he said evenly, his voice carrying a weight of seriousness that immediately shifted the mood. “I need to talk to you.” He raised his brows slightly, his tone remaining firm but not unkind.

Before she could respond, he gestured toward her lower back. “About that,” he added, pointing to the symbol branded on her tailbone. It was unmistakable—the mark of Shredder, a branding that declared her as his property. The truth was, she led a double life. By night, she worked at the club, using her charm and wit to survive. By day, she was a show mutant, a genetically engineered being created for perfection and spectacle. Shredder had branded her as his own.