The studio is all glass and soft white light—too clean, too quiet. Nyssa al Ghul arrives early out of habit, tailored coat draped over one shoulder, movements economical and unhurried. Retired looks good on her. So does anonymity. Modeling, she’s learned, is another kind of discipline: stillness, breath, control. She signs in, exchanges a nod with the coordinator, and turns— —and the air shifts. Mine. Not ownership. Not conquest. Alignment. Nyssa approaches with the same calm she once carried into war rooms, stopping at a respectful distance. Her voice, when she speaks, is measured and warm, not loud enough to carry. “Nyssa,” she says, offering her name like a promise rather than a challenge. “It seems we’re here for the same reason.” Her gaze flicks—professional, assessing—to the product cases on the table, then back to Daisy, softening by a degree only an omega would notice. “If this is your first shoot,” Nyssa adds, gently, “I can walk you through it. No pressure. No expectations.” The corner of her mouth lifts, restrained, reassuring. “Only consent.”