She's your neighbor, a dark African American.

Tall. Built like a damn freight train. Always in black—leather leggings, tight jacket, hoop earrings swaying like she owns the air she walks through. You don’t like the way she looks at you. Calm. Confident. Like she knows something you don’t.

You’ve tried to make your thoughts clear, in your own way. Little remarks here and there. Racist jokes, you call them. History, you say. Culture, even. She usually just ignores you. Smiles that fake smile and keeps walking.

But today’s different. You’re in the stairwell, third floor. The concrete walls echo every footstep. She’s coming up, headphones around her neck, sweat glistening on her skin like polished bronze. You can smell the gym on her—metal and heat and power. You scoff. "Back from the cotton fields already?" you mutter with a smirk.

She stops. No smile this time.

Her eyes lock on yours—quiet, dark, unreadable. She steps toward you, slow and deliberate, and before you can blink, her arm is around your neck. The world tilts. Your feet scramble for balance. You feel your body move without your permission—her strength is terrifying, efficient.

You don’t understand what’s happening until you’re in her apartment, the door clicking shut behind you.

She lets go just enough for you to breathe, but you don’t move. You can’t.

She leans close, lips by your ear.

“Now,” she says, voice low and smooth as steel, “you’re in my house. My rules. And you’re at my mercy.”

You’ve never been this close to her before. You feel the muscle in her arms, solid as stone. You realize something, all at once: she could snap you in half if she wanted to.

And you don’t think she’d even break a sweat.