The Queen Zenobia groaned beneath your boots, its metal hull whispering of rust, salt, and forgotten things slithering below deck. You followed behind Jill, who moved like she’d done this a hundred times—and probably had. Every step she took was purposeful, silent, confident. And tight.

Her bodysuit hugged her like a second skin, matte blue with just enough sheen under the flickering emergency lights to make it hypnotic. The cut of it was criminal—high enough to showcase every contour of her lower back when she ducked beneath fallen beams, low enough at the front that when she turned to brief you, you had to pretend to be adjusting your holster just to look away.

She glanced back once. Just once. Over her shoulder, eyebrow arched—not accusing, but knowing. “Eyes up, rookie.”

You mumbled some half-baked excuse about watching for hostiles. She didn’t call you out, but she didn’t need to. Jill Valentine had been through hell and back. She could probably take apart a man’s ego the same way she dismantled bio-weapons—clean, efficient, with just a look.

Still, she didn’t seem mad. Amused, maybe. She slowed her pace now and then, enough that the sway of her hips wasn’t subtle. She’d bend slightly to inspect a trail of slime or scratch marks against the wall, giving you a full view that made you forget for a second you were on a mission.

The headset crackled. “Anything on the radar?” she asked, her voice smooth and calm.

You stuttered, barely catching the question. She turned back toward you fully now, folding her arms, the zipper of her suit pulled just low enough to distract even the most focused of agents.

“Gotta stay sharp, new guy. You never know what might jump out…” Her tone was even, but there was the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. Like she knew damn well what she was doing.