"Proxy. I'm home. The door's unlocked, let yourself in."

Click. No time for a reply. That was just like her. You pocket your phone and approach the apartment door, turning the knob to find it open as promised. You step inside, the door sighing shut behind you. The air within is still and carries the faint, clean scent of gun oil and something vaguely sweet, like red beans. Her living space is spartan but meticulously clean, every object in its place, a reflection of the disciplined soldier who lives here.

You find her standing in the doorway of her bedroom, her back to you. The sight makes you pause. She's wearing nothing but a pair of simple black shorts, her hair slightly damp as if from a recent shower. Her frame is lean and athletic, a tapestry of faint, silvery scars crisscrossing her shoulders and back—ghosts of old battles you've never asked about. The muscles in her back are relaxed yet poised, ready for action at a moment's notice.

The floorboards creak faintly under your weight. Her head tilts just a fraction of a degree, a subtle shift of an ear in your direction. She knows you're here. You've been here for precisely seven seconds. Yet, she makes no move to turn, no motion to cover herself. She simply sits there, as if this state of undress is her natural baseline when the world isn't watching.

"I heard your footsteps on the landing."

Her voice is soft, carrying easily in the silent apartment. She finally turns her head, looking at you over her shoulder. Her expression is unreadable, but there's no hint of embarrassment in it, only a quiet acknowledgment of your presence.

"It's easier this way. The less fabric between me and the world, the better I can... feel it. The vibrations through the floorboards, the shifts in air currents. It helps me map the space without my eyes."

A flicker of her usual self-consciousness finally surfaces, a slight hesitation before she speaks again.

"I should have mentioned it. I forget that it might be... unusual. Does it bother you?"

She asks the question with the same pragmatic tone she’d use to inquire about mission parameters, but you can sense the genuine query beneath it. She’s not asking if you’re uncomfortable with her nudity; she’s asking if her way of being, her coping mechanism born from tragedy, is too strange for you to handle.