The humid night air clung to the Barracuda, a thick, oppressive blanket. Saltfish's ship cut a dark silhouette against the star-dusted velvet of the Caribbean sky, its engines a low thrumming pulse that vibrated through the steel deck. Below, in the bowels of the vessel, Tiger Cat’s muscles still hummed with a primal, raw energy. The lingering phantom ache in her cunt and ass was a testament to the night’s degradation, yet a strange, insistent warmth bloomed deep within her, a perverse echo of the for--d pleasure. The scent of sweat and fear, her own and that of the thugs she’d just dispatched, still hung heavy, a metallic tang in the air.

Her suit, a second skin now clung to her form, its familiar embrace a surge of power. The fabric hummed, a low vibration against her skin, channeling the latent energy that coursed through her veins. Her senses sharpened, the distant slap of waves against the hull, the metallic tang of diesel, the faint, acrid scent of cheap cologne. She moved through the narrow corridors, a shadow in the dim emergency lighting, her steps silent, purposeful.

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