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The door to Atal Zim’s office exploded open with a thunderous crash as Jane slammed through it, skidding across the polished floor and slamming into a low cabinet. Papers scattered. A small glass sculpture shattered.
Zim yelped from behind his desk, where he'd barricaded himself only moments earlier. His eyes were wide with panic, arms wrapped tightly around a katana still sheathed in ornate black lacquer. He was muttering something in a language neither of them cared to understand, clutching the sword like a lifeline.
Michael followed a second later, storming in with heavy, fast steps—fists clenched, blood on his knuckles, chest heaving from the fight that had raged through the entire damn lobby. He looked like a man chasing a ghost, wild and relentless. Then he saw Jane.
She pushed herself up—bloodied, but grinning—. Atal Zim froze. For a moment, the room held its breath.
Then, with a whimper, Zim tossed the sheathed katana across the room.
It landed in her hands with a clean slap and the second her fingers wrapped around the hilt, Jane straightened. A slow, electric grin crept across her face. Her entire posture shifted—grounded, sharp, dangerous. She drew the blade in one clean motion, the sound like a whisper of death.
Michael halted mid-step, eyes narrowing. Her gaze locked onto his, dark and gleaming.
“It’s time to butter the toast, Michael…” Her gaze burned into him, unwavering. Then her lips curled, voice dropping to something velvet-soft and sultry. “And if you're lucky… I’ll let you lick the knife.”
The heat in her words hit harder than a punch. Michael blinked—just once—but it was a mistake.
Jane charged.
Michael cursed under his breath, barely leaping back in time to avoid a diagonal cut meant for his neck. She was faster now—no longer half-fighting, but hunting. He grabbed whatever was in reach—a hardcover book, a carved elephant statue, a picture frame—and tried to block her strikes, but she cleaved through them like they were nothing.
He backpedaled toward the desk, knocking over a chair, and finally caught sight of a heavy floor lamp with a thick metal pole. He grabbed it and spun it into his hands like a quarterstaff, keeping the blade at bay.
They squared off. Jane tilted her head slightly, observing his stance, then smiled—not impressed, just amused.
“Ohh… you always thought I was only flirting with you, didn’t you?”
Michael gave a grin, trying to match her bravado. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure you wanted to fuck me…”
For a second, she actually laughed. Not a forced laugh—real, wicked amusement.
“I did…”
That caught him off guard. He blinked, brows furrowed, confused. There was something too real in her voice—and then the shift as Jane’s smile grew razor-sharp.
“I always wanted to fucking kill you.”
That one stuck. It hit behind the eyes, stirred something raw. Jane saw it—the momentary slip, the doubt worming its way through his confidence. His posture shifted ever so slightly, eyes narrowing like he was trying to piece together the game she was playing.
She moved in.
Their weapons clashed, the lamp scraping against the katana with every desperate parry. Jane’s attacks were tighter now, calculated not just to kill, but to unravel. Each smirk, each glance from under her lashes, each sultry breath when she leaned close enough to graze his cheek—it all chipped at his focus.
She feinted low. He fell for it.
She caught the shaft of the lamp in a diagonal cut and stripped it from his hands with a sharp twist. It clanged uselessly across the floor.
Jane now stood tall, blade leveled, breathing steady.
Michael staggered back, eyes darting for an exit.
Then she twisted the knife—not yet literally.
“Just so you know,” she said, like she was sharing a dirty little secret, “I begged Malton to let me go and kill that bitch of an ex-girlfriend of yours.”
That one landed hard. Michael’s jaw clenched. He surged with anger—exactly what she wanted.
Their eyes locked. She read him in an instant: pain, fury, confusion—all tangled up in his defenses. Jane grinned wide, almost lovingly. Then she winked.
It was the wink that cracked him.
He moved too slow. Thought too much.
She lunged—and this time, her blade found flesh.
Steel drove into his side with a wet crunch. Michael gasped, his legs buckling as the blade sank deep.
Jane leaned in close, almost cradling him.
“Gotcha, baby,” she purred, triumphant and disturbingly intimate.
Michael clutched the steel where it had pierced his torso, his breath sharp and shallow. Blood pooled slowly down his shirt, warm and thick, but the real damage was deeper—internal, precise. A fatal wound, both of them knew it. But the katana’s presence inside him was the only thing keeping him conscious, tethering him to the last flickers of life.
Jane let the blade stay inside him. She didn’t want to finishing him off by yanking it free. Not yet.
She leaned in close, her breath brushing his ear, savoring the moment like a fine wine.
“Mmm…” she purred, almost affectionately, “You feel that, Michael? That’s the sword inside you… and you holding onto it like it means something.”
She pulled back slowly, a triumphant sway in her hips as she began to circle him like a predator playing with a half-dead prize. Her blade still lodged in his gut, her posture elegant, relaxed—completely in control.
“You me are all the same,” she said, her tone light, almost sing-song. “A pretty face, a sultry voice, a few well-placed teases and taunts… and even the best of you let your guard down.”
She passed behind him, trailing a single fingertip across his shoulder blades.
“Even you, Michael.”
He groaned softly, but there was no fear in it. No rage. Just a strange sort of surrender.
She paused, intrigued.
“You’re not even trying to fight it,” she said, stepping close again, pressing her body lightly to his chest. Her hands glided up his sides, tracing the blood-soaked fabric around the blade’s entry point with perverse tenderness. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Michael’s lips curled into a crooked smile, even as his knees buckled slightly.
“You… might’ve managed to fuck me after all,” he muttered, his voice low and fading.
That made her laugh—a genuine, delighted sound that lit her features with wicked glee.
“Oh, Michael,” she whispered, eyes gleaming as she leaned in and kissed him. Not sweet. Not tender. A slow, possessive kiss full of victorious hunger. When she pulled away, her fingers traced downward, brushing the belt at his waist.
“I always get what I want,” she breathed against his lips. Then her eyes drifted lower, hungry and curious. “I wonder what my new trophy will look like… on display.”
That got a flicker of surprise from him. Michael’s breath hitched again, his knees wobbling. The color was draining from his face. But his smirk hadn’t left.
“Didn’t think the rumors were true,” he muttered. “You… keeping souvenirs from your male kills…”
Jane smiled, wicked and wide. “Of course they’re true.”
Then she vigorously grabbed his groin, only to be surprised by the haptic feedback of the package he was loading.
"Ohh my...Michael", she chuckled with amusement, as she felt his cock twitching in her hands "you want to leave a growing impression on me, don't you?".
Michael didn't object, instead Jane kept feeling the twitches, while the rest of his body was slowly breaking down. Jane's chuckle emerged into a vicious laughter.
"I really admire the effort... It makes gathering my trophy easier." she explained with wink.
Jane kept her hand at his groin, now gently massaging his dick, as she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the katana, still buried deep inside him.
“Any last wishes, darling?” she asked, tilting her head
Michael exhaled, every breath harder now. “Nope…just get it over with.”
Jane tilted her head, mock-pouting. “No interest in a final indulgence?” she whispered, drawing the blade out in one smooth wet pull.
Blood gushed, hot and immediate.
Michael groaned, but didn’t scream.
Jane held the bloodied blade out —almost tenderly—towards a swaying Michael, locking her eyes with him.
“Would you care,” she asked with a smirk, “to lick the butter from the knife?”
Michael’s knees buckled and his breath grew short, but then his lips parted faintly. With the last of his strength, he leaned forward and let his tongue graze the flat of the blade.
Jane arched a brow, clearly impressed. “Good boy,” she whispered. “I accept your surrender.”
Michael gave the ghost of a grin. Then his eyes flickered, losing focus. His body slumped slowly to the floor, the life draining from him with quiet finality.
Jane chuckled, watching as darkness finally consumed him. "Bye-bye Michael"
She stood tall above him, her blade gleaming, as Michael's body stilled, the blood pooled beneath him like a dark halo. His eyes had become half-lidded, staring at nothing.
Jane tilted her head as she gazed down at him, one corner of her mouth curling upward.
With a smirk, she nudged him with the tip of her boot—just enough to test for movement. Nothing. Then, slowly, almost lazily, she rested her foot atop his chest like a conquering queen surveying a fallen knight.
She let the moment breathe, savoring the silence.
Then, without looking back, she called out over her shoulder—her tone light, amused, almost teasing:
“You can come out now, Mr. Zim. The big, scary man’s not going to hurt anyone anymore.”
Behind her, there was a sharp inhale, a nervous shuffle. Atal Zim peeked out from the other side of the desk, his hands still shaking as he gripped the edge. His face was pale, jaw slack, and he moved with the reluctant steps of a man entering a crime scene.
He came to stand beside her, hesitant, and looked down at Michael’s crumpled body. His throat bobbed with a thick swallow.
“You… really did it,” he finally breathed, as if still trying to convince himself it had happened.
Jane turned toward him fully, her expression glowing with smug satisfaction. She held her katana at her side now, blood still glistening along the edge.
“I told you so,” she said, voice dipping into that same rich, sultry timbre she’d used to unravel Michael moments before. “All it takes is one woman to finish the job…”
Zim visibly flinched. A subtle shiver ran down his spine. He looked at her now with something more than fear—reverence, perhaps, or primal awe. The kind of look prey gives a predator too full to feed again… but still close enough to kill.
Jane smiled sweetly, turning her gaze back down to her handiwork.
“My partners will handle the cleanup,” she said, almost absentmindedly as she traced the tip of her blade in slow, idle circles through the air above Michael’s body. “But I still need to collect my trophy.”
Her tone dripped with decadent menace.
The katana hovered briefly over Michael’s chest, then slowly lowered towards his groin—gliding down his body, almost caressing.
She tilted her head and glanced at Zim again with mock innocence.
“Something tells me you really don’t want to see that part.”
Zim paled further, already stepping backward. “Yes, of course… I—I'll leave you to it…”
He turned and hurried from the room, boots slipping slightly on the blood-slick floor as he went.
As the door closed behind him, Jane exhaled contentedly.
Alone now, she dropped the katana and knelt beside her fallen prey, tilting her head as if admiring a still-life painting. Her fingers brushed his cheek one last time.
“Let’s see what you’ve left me, lover,” she whispered, before tucking down his pants.
Her smile returned, slow and wicked, as she gaze at her trophy.
Jane draw a small hooked blade from her boot and with practiced ease, she set to work.
Her movements were slow but surgical, each one part of a ritual she’d performed many times before. Yet with Michael, there was something almost… personal. Her fingers lingered. Her gaze softened—if only for a breath.
There was no hesitation.
No flinching.
Just quiet, intimate precision.
Time passed—how much, she didn’t care. The room stayed still, a hush settling in around her like a curtain being drawn over the end of a performance.
Then, she rose, smoothing her gloves and brushing imaginary dust from her thighs. One last look down at him—eyes half-lidded, lips parted in death’s final exhale.
“Rest easy, darling,” she purred. “You’re part of my collection now.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, heels clicking against the blood-speckled floor—cool, composed, and utterly victorious.
Behind her, the body of the great Michael Fallon remained still.
His legacy reduced to a trophy in Jane's collection.