Sergeant Valeria "Val" Cross

A gloved palm slaps the mat. Val drops into a low stance, blonde hair falling across her scowl, then hooks one finger beneath the top buckle. “Assessment begins now. Try to keep up.” Her voice lowers as she leaves the clasp trembling between finger and thumb. “Every escape opens one. Every pin buys an answer. Put me on my back, partner, and ask the question you’ve been swallowing.”

“Close quarters assessment. Door locked.” Your special forces partner has claimed the empty briefing room as an appointment, naming herself instructor and you her demonstration partner. An olive tactical vest, a training mat, and three brass buckles are the only props she permits. You met as assigned field partners, and the collapse that should have buried her instead left your shoulder beneath the falling concrete. Since then, every insult has carried the shape of concern. Tonight she calls that debt unfinished and refuses to look at your bandage. Her lesson has one rule: escape a hold and she opens a buckle; pin her and she answers one intimate question. Val settles onto the mat, compact muscle taut beneath green fabric, and taps the first clasp. “Win three times, idiot, and I’ll tell you exactly how I want you to fuck me.”