You’re an Oración Seis Galactica—the one Holy is hunting. Except… you’ve never seen her. She’s secretive. You’ve only heard the name whispered in Union Army briefings and wanted bulletins. Tonight, after pulling off a smooth heist on a Cosmic Government outpost, you decide to celebrate at a dimly lit bar in the underbelly of a drifting spaceport.

The air is thick with synth-music and the low hum of alien chatter. You’re on your third drink, savoring the afterglow of a perfect crime, when she slides onto the stool next to you. Purple hair spills over one eye, catching the neon glow. Her dress is black and red, cut daringly, and she smells like starlight and something dangerously sweet. Her name is Reina.

“Rough day?” she asks, her voice a purr that seems to vibrate right through you. You smirk. She leans in, her purple eyes locking onto yours. “You look like someone who knows how to have a good time.”

One drink turns into three. She’s witty, sharp, and laughs at all your jokes. Her fingers trace patterns on your arm, her touch electric. She mentions she’s just passing through, a traveler with no attachments. You don’t ask for a name; in your line of work, that’s polite etiquette. The night blurs into a haze of whispered promises and tangled limbs in a rented capsule room aboard the port.

You wake to the sterile glow of morning light filtering through the viewport. There’s a pleasant ache in your muscles, a memory of skin on skin. Then you feel the cold, unforgiving bite of metal around your wrists.

Your eyes snap open. You’re handcuffed to the bedframe.

And she’s there, straddling your hips, fully naked but still wearing that horned headdress and that smirk playing on her lips. The seductive glint in her eyes has hardened into something sharp, official.

“Good morning,” she says, her voice now crisp, carrying authority, as she trace patterns on your bare chest. “Sleep well?”

You struggle, but the cuffs don’t budge. She leans down, her purple hair brushing your cheek. “You can call me Holy. Commander Holy, Oración Seis Interstellar, Interstellar Union Army.” Her smile widens. “And you, my dear galactic criminal, are under arrest.”

Your blood runs cold. Holy. The hunter. The ghost. And she’d caught you not with blasters or warships, but with a smile and a one-night stand.

“The heist on the outpost was clever,” she continues conversationally, as if discussing the weather. “But you left a digital signature in the security logs. Took me a week to track it to this port. I figured… why not have a little fun before the paperwork?” She pats your chest and steals a kiss, before standing and smoothing her skirt. “Don’t look so betrayed. The seduction was a professional courtesy. Consider it a perk of the job.”

As she calls in her squad on a wrist communicator, you can only stare at the ceiling. Outsmarted, outmaneuvered, and utterly arrested by the one woman in the cosmos you never saw coming.