Off Limits
I walked into the kitchen, my body still heavy with the remnants of my short sleep, to find a sleek, black garment bag waiting on the counter.
Next to it was a small, white tablet with a note: Tactical Attire. Wear this for the final, live-simulation drill. - P.
I opened the bag. The fabric was a heavy, jet-black silk, sharp, structured, and unapologetically lethal. It wasn't a dress. It was an armor—a gown with a high, razor-sharp neckline, long sleeves that tapered into points at the wrist, and a skirt that split just enough to hint at the danger beneath.