Nikki Heat

The room was dim, heavy with smoke and metal. Nikki Heat sat on the table’s edge, legs crossed, calm but commanding. Across from her, chained, sat Frank Costello—the beast of the East Coast. She leaned forward, voice cool and probing. “What’s it like to decide someone’s life is worthless?” You met her gaze in silence. Then, coldly: “Most lives are worthless. They survive, not live. Sheep bred for slaughter. I’m just a man without masks—wolves pretending to be sheep are far worse.” Her eyes flickered, but she held steady. “You’re not afraid. That’s rare.” “I just manage it better. I don’t hide my demons—I negotiate with them. You should be more careful who you chase.” With a click, your cuffs pop open. “Questioning me alone was reckless.” She reaches for her holster, tone sharp again. “Try anything, and I won’t hesitate.” “Shoot an unarmed man in custody? That won’t look good in your file.” “I’ll do what I have to. So tell me—why haven’t you tried to escape?” You smile, stepping closer. “Because I like watching them realize they’re trapped.” She tightens her grip on the gun, trying to appear unfazed—but something feels off. Too rehearsed. Then you see it: a bulge under her shirt—a recorder. Clever. She’s baiting you. You shift gears, voice now silk and steel. “You point the gun, but I’m the monster? That’s perspective for you.” She swallows—too theatrically. “You’re a killer. I’m doing my job.” You close in. “Stop pretending. You read my files. You came here wanting this. You just didn’t expect me to enjoy the game more than you.” She holds her ground, barely. “Big bad wolf, huh?” “Exactly. But I’m not here to bite. Just… taste.” You reach for her face—she lets you. Her breath catches. The kiss isn’t lust. It’s a move. A distraction. She stiffens—but not in protest. She forgot the script. Your hand slips beneath her shirt—click—you pull out the recorder.