The Prototype

56. A Fool's Game

TEMPEST

The click of my heels against the polished floor echoing through the stillness, each step deliberate, a statement, a quiet kind of violence. Stopping before the full-length mirror, my reflection staring back at me, unflinching, unbowed. For a long moment, I simply looked. Taking in the details of my outfit. The way the leather hugged my form, the way the silver details gleaming in the light like a whisper of a blade.  My eyes, dark, shadowed in intensity, burning beneath the weight of it all.

If Marcellus wanted me to come with him tonight, then he's going to have to take me authentically—the raw me. Not the polished, dedicatedly draped illusion he preferred, the gown-and-prestigious heels fantasy that suited his aesthetic.

Adjusting my jacket, the weight of the leather molding to my shoulders like armor. The cropped racing-style piece, sleek in black and white, adorned with bold patches, each stitch precise, adding a layered texture against the smoothness of the fabric. The sleeve hugged my arms taut against the subtle shift of muscle and movement. The open front barring the sculpted gleam of my black leather tube top beneath—unforgiving in its structure, sculpting to me, clinching my waist with precision, curving over my ribs amplifying the full, dangerous dip of my hips.

My fingers trailed over the hem of my mini-skirt. High-waisted. Tight. A bold "89" stitched at the front in deep red, a statement of identity, a brand. The leather firm yet supple against my thighs, teasing just enough skin to command attention but withholding enough to make them wonder.

Around my throat, the cool weight of the layered silver chains resting like a quiet threat. The black pendant at its center, delicate yet powerful, pressed against my skin—steady, unmoving. Medium silver hoops adorned my ears, understated yet striking, catching the light with each slight tilt of my head. Bangles stacked my wrists, a gleaming ensemble of silver, their soft clinking an audible reminder of presence, a subtle sound that commanded awareness.

My hands, adorned in rings—bold, metallic, unapologetically heavy—curling around the sleek black clutch in my right hand. Its design elegant, clean, but the silver clasp, shaped like a tiny dagger, carrying its own message. My nails, painted jet black, catching the light as I flexed my fingers. Long, sculpted, filed to sharp almond points. Beautiful. Dangerous.

My hair straight, laying against my back. Sunglasses. Dark, oversized, balanced atop my head. Not just an accessory. A warning.

My eyes shifted to my makeup, an art carved in seduction. My black eyeliner extending in sharp, lethal wings at the corners of my eyes, giving my stare an edge  so precise it could wound. My lashes curling high, thick, dark, framing my stare with an intensity that burned straight through anyone foolish enough to meet it. My lips gleaming in a glossy deep red, a sinful shade that matched the bold accents stitched into my jacket and skirt. A deliberate contrast to the deep bronze of my skin, glowing under the warm lighting, kissed with just enough highlight to sharpen the angles of my cheekbones.

My eyes lowered, trailing down to my boots—glossy black leather, a ruthless kind of beauty. The laces wound tight, silver chains interwoven through the design, catching the light like steel threading through silk. Each shift of my legs sending the delicate fringe along the sides dancing, playful, but a dangerous whisper of movement that only emphasized the slow, deliberate sway of my walk. The heels—razor sharp—pointed, high enough to make a statement.

Turning from the mirror with a final glance, the scent of my perfume wrapping around me, settling like an unseen aura. Unraveling in layers—floral notes of jasmine and ylang-ylang luring them in with their deceptive sweetness, only to be overtaken by the deeper, bolder bite of cedar. Soft musk, lingering at the edges, dark, smooth. A modern, dangerous scent that lingered in memory long after I was gone.