# Day 7 - 10:20
He started with research. Not the kind that you could Google—more like polling the chain of command. He asked Kim Minjung, who only shrugged and said, “She likes her protein shakes cold, her workouts silent, and her fights over by round one.” He asked Elena, who just said, “Be polite, but don’t waste her time. She’s never been the chatty type.” He asked Vivienne, who grinned and said, “Just try not to die, mon ami.”
He even tried to run a quick scan on the ship’s logs, hoping for some telltale pattern—what time she took her meals, where she liked to stand on deck, whether she’d ever smiled for a camera. All he found was a string of duty reports, each signed with the same blunt, perfectly blocky script.
He thought about what Aida had said. About walls. About pretending to be someone else to survive. About how the wall could get too strong, until nothing felt real.
He thought about the way she'd looked at him when she said reward. Not playful. Something else. Something behind the mask.
Maybe her wall gets thinner when she's with me, he wondered. Maybe that's what I saw.
The thought made him feel something he couldn't name. Not pride. Not hope. Just... warmth. That someone would let him see past the performance.
He didn't know if it meant anything. But it felt like it did.
By the time 1400 rolled around, Zhao had convinced himself this was a suicide mission.
He walked to the fitness center. The walls pulsed with the low, synthetic thrum of someone’s playlist—old-school hip-hop, probably Kim’s. The air was heavy with the layered sweat of every woman who’d ever used the free weights. There was a sour tang in the nose that went straight to the adrenal glands.
Maggie stood by the water cooler, her workout already finished. She wore a tactical jacket unzipped just enough to reveal the tight shirt underneath, her duty pants still showing off a toned shelf butt and muscular thighs. A belt hung at her waist, loaded with a sidearm and what looked like several other tools designed specifically for inflicting pain. She was tall but not as massive as Zhao had imagined—clearly the shape of a woman beneath the uniform. When she saw him, she neither smiled nor frowned, just checked her watch and nodded once, as if confirming a delivery had arrived precisely on schedule.
“You ready?” she said, low and flat.
He nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. Yes. I mean, if you are.”
She jerked her chin toward the exit. “Not in here,” she said. “Too many eyes.”
They walked in silence down the corridor. Zhao tried to match her pace, but her stride was a full third longer than his, and he had to hustle just to keep up. They passed a pair of security crew who stared and then looked away with synchronized guilt. At a junction, Maggie stopped, then turned left without warning.
They ended up in a maintenance corridor off the main deck—bare metal, barely enough clearance for two. She paused, leaned into the wall, and looked him up and down.
Zhao swallowed. “Okay. But can I—?”
She interrupted with a snort. “You think I want to? I’d rather take a bullet. But the schedule is the schedule.” She leaned closer, until he could smell the faint pepper of her deodorant, the raw edge of old sweat. “You want to be the hero? Fine. I’ll play along.”
It was like slamming into a wall—nothing got through. Zhao almost folded then and there, but he remembered Aida’s words: Turn it around. Take control. Decide what you want her to remember.
He decided, then.
“You like efficient, right?” he said, voice shaking a little but gathering speed. “Let’s make it efficient. But let me try something first.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Like what?”
He looked around. There was a hatch just up ahead, a half-rusted access panel labeled with red tape: NOT FOR PASSENGER USE. He pointed. “In there. If you’re not scared.”
For the first time, she grinned. “I don’t scare easy, kid.”
The hatch led into an artery of the ship no guest was meant to see. The walls dripped with condensation, cables braided thick as ship ropes, LEDs flickering at odd intervals—some pure blue, others dying orange. It smelled like ozone, rubber, and, deeper in, the burnt sugar tang of leaking coolant. The hum of the engines was a physical thing, a vibration that passed up through the soles of their shoes and into the marrow.
Zhao felt it: the danger, the potential. Every step forward made the surface of his skin go hot and cold at the same time.
Maggie followed, all business. She never stumbled, never brushed her shoulders against the pipes unless she meant to. Once, when she had to squeeze past him at a narrow bend, she gripped his hip and pressed in so tight he felt the outline of her teeth as she smirked into his ear.
He led her deeper, to a spot where the corridor widened, just above the grated ceiling of the engine room. Below, the drone of machinery was punctuated by Kim’s cursing and the clatter of dropped tools. The grill was dense, but not opaque: from where they stood, the heads of the engineers moved in and out of view, tiny and oblivious.
He turned to Maggie, took her hand, and said, “It starts now.”
She gave a single nod, her eyes flicking to the pipes overhead with unexpected recognition. "What's the play?" she asked, voice softening as her fingers trailed along a valve junction—the same gesture Zhao had seen soldiers make when returning to their childhood homes. The tension in her shoulders eased, replaced by the muscle memory of someone who had spent years navigating spaces just like this one, pressed against similar walls, waiting for similar signals. Visit novelping.com for the full chapter.
He moved quick. Slid his hands under her tactical jacket, pushing it down her shoulders until it trapped her arms at the elbows. The heavy fabric bunched at her back, effectively binding her arms behind her without him having to turn her around. He pressed forward, his chest against hers, pinning her to the wall. The steel reverberated with a hollow thrum as her shoulder blades hit the metal, her face still inches from his, eyes locked in challenge.
She didn't resist—instead, she arched toward him, the curve of her spine a deliberate invitation. The movement pulled her shirt taut across her chest, the damp fabric clinging to reveal what her tactical gear had concealed: the unmistakable silhouette of small but defined breasts, their contours clearly feminine despite her athletic build. Where sweat had soaked through, the material turned nearly transparent, exposing the dark circles of her nipples hardened against the cool metal wall. He leaned his weight into her, feeling the muscles in her shoulders tense and shift beneath his grip.
“You sure?” she said, eyes locked on his.
He didn’t answer. Just kissed her—hard, teeth clashing. She bit him back, drew a bead of blood on his lip. The taste was metallic, sharp, and in the moment it tasted like victory.
He tore her shirt open with a force he never knew he possessed, buttons scattering across the metal floor. Her body beneath was nothing like the battle-scarred warrior he'd imagined. Instead, smooth skin stretched over lean muscle, unmarked and perfect—not a single scar disrupting the taut canvas. The absence of stories written on her flesh seemed almost impossible for someone in her line of work, making her seem more dangerous somehow, as if she'd never once been caught. Her small, firm breasts rose from muscle like twin shields, their skin taut and flushed with heat. Her dark nipples, pebbled and erect, caught the blue-tinged light from above.
As she pressed against him, he caught her scent—sharp metal and salt, with undertones of gun oil and something uniquely female. It mingled with the industrial tang of the ship's innards, creating a heady perfume that seemed to belong perfectly to this hidden mechanical space.She didn't retreat; she advanced, making a sound—half battle cry, half surrender. His mouth found her breast before he could think, teeth grazing nipple with an intensity that shocked even him. Her sharp intake of breath made him pause, but when he looked up, her half-lidded eyes and parted lips told him everything. She arched into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, pressing him harder against her as he claimed the other breast with equal hunger.
He went for her tactical pants, fumbling with the utility belt's clasp until it gave way with a metallic click. He yanked them down and froze—beneath the heavy-duty fabric was nothing but skin, no underwear, just her. The unexpected intimacy of it sent a jolt through him. She was already wet, her scent thick and wild, hitting him harder than perfume—nothing sweet or subtle, just a raw note of need that went straight to his spine. He worked her with his fingers as she kicked the pants down to her knees, binding her legs together like rope.Her jacket still trapped her arms behind her, transforming her into a captured warrior—dangerous even in restraint.
The ship's industrial lighting carved shadows across her exposed body, revealing the lean, sculpted planes of her abdomen—not the bulky six-pack of a bodybuilder but the subtle, feminine definition that came from years of combat training. Each breath rippled across those muscles in hypnotic waves, creating valleys and ridges that spoke of lethal grace rather than brute strength. When she arched against him, the muscles in her thighs and calves flexed beneath smooth skin, a display of raw power even in vulnerability.
He paused, taking in the sight of her—bound yet defiant, naked yet somehow armored. Her head tilted slightly to the right, eyes still challenging him though the angle betrayed a fleeting vulnerability. The harsh industrial lighting caught the curves of her body like a sculpture, all planes and shadows, strength rendered into art.His fingers traced her folds, finding her slick and swollen, one digit becoming two, then three, stretching her as she arched against the cold metal wall. Her breath caught with each thrust, her inner walls clenching around him, urging him deeper until he slid his fourth finger in alongside the others. She took him completely, her body yielding as a gush of wetness coated his hand and ran down his wrist in rivulets. When she finally shuddered against him, her release came in waves, her essence flowing freely down his palm and between his fingers like spring water breaking through ice, a warrior momentarily conquered by her own pleasure.
She wanted to reciprocate, but couldn't. Her jacket still bound her arms behind her, elbows bent at an awkward angle that made her shoulder blades protrude like stunted wings. When he saw her struggle, something primal awakened in him. He spun her roughly, pressing her front against the cold metal wall, her cheek flattened against the steel. The position forced her back to arch, presenting her rear to him in silent offering.
He stepped back, just far enough to take in the view. The industrial light caught the curves of her backside—two perfect half-moons, muscled yet feminine, flanked by thighs that could crush a man or carry him to heaven. Between those powerful legs, her sex glistened, swollen and slick, a pink invitation framed by neatly trimmed dark hair. Just above, the tight pucker of her other entrance tensed with each ragged breath she took.
"Can you handle it?" she asked, voice strained against the wall.
He didn't answer. He wanted to say something witty or confident, but all that came out was a growl as he freed himself from his pants and entered her, fast and unceremonious, the kind of thrust that slammed her hips against the cold metal.
She finished first—sudden, explosive, a shout muffled against her forearm as her body seized around him. Then, silence. The engine's constant rumble faltered for one heart-stopping second. From somewhere below, the metallic clanking of tools ceased abruptly. Footsteps. Kim's voice called up: "Everything okay up there?" A flashlight beam swept across the lower entrance to the compartment. Zhao froze mid-thrust, still buried inside her, his release hovering at the edge of oblivion as the beam of light inched closer to the ladder.