Page 2 of Bad Girl Dilemma

I don’t talk much on the app. Just… watch. Explore. I’ve interacted a couple of times, but mostly I’ve created dirty little fantasies in my head I secretly hope will come true.

Dominants, subs, contracts, scenes.

Intimacy without strings.

Pain twisted into pleasure.

There’s something almost reverent about it. Like control isn’t something you seize—but something you surrender.

Maybe after this job, I’ll finally do what I’ve been too chicken to do so far and… indulge. Dip my toe in the water, so to speak. I don’t know how far I’ll get because all that surrendering sounds copasetic in theory, but yeah… I’m not the surrendering type.

Maybe a clean, anonymous hookup. No feelings. Just breathless, beautiful pain. A reward for a job well done. I scan a few profiles, half-distracted. A masked man with a wicked mouth.

That Dom with blood-red leather gloves. The one I keep returning to over and over.

My pulse flutters. I take note of his name.

SinMadeFlesh.Meh, not exactly original, but whatever.

Maybe I’ll message him. Later.

I shut down the app and return to the poll.

98%. That’s as good as I’m going to get.

I roll off the bed, energy spiking at the prospect of vengeance.

Showtime.

My gear is already laidout: matte black cargo pants, tight turtleneck, harness strapped with micro-tools, soundless boots. My gloves are fingerprint-resistant, and my mask—sleek and mirrored—covers half my face, voice modulator built into the jawline.

I secure my ponytail, zip everything up, and look at myself in the mirror.

No one would guess I’m twenty-two. That I’m very partial to cereal for dinner, and cry during Pixar shorts. That I once built a server farm in my mom’s garage to DDOS a revenge-porn site.

All they see is Specter—digital thief, vigilante brat, chaos in motion.

Not Dahlia Wynn, cybersecurity expert and programmer.

I tap the go-live button. “Specter, online.”

My voice comes out distorted, laced with static and steel. The screen flashes green. My viewers spike fast.

“Yessss she’s back.”

“This one’s gonna be juicy, I can feel it.”

“Who’s tonight’s victim, Specter?”

“You voted. I listened. It’s Triple D,” I purr. “Let’s rob the devil.”

The building looms like a monolith,all Obsidian glass and silent menace as if its owner were reflecting the city, daring it to come closer.

I slip inside like smoke—through a service entrance, past sleeping cameras, under the pulse of motion sensors I’ve already looped. My custom drone buzzes softly at my side, flashing green when the path is clear.

Heart rate steady. Breathing controlled. No fear. I’m in the zone.

Until the actual heist, all I’ll be charged with on theextreme off chanceI’m caught is corporate trespassing: a slap on the wrist, a fine, or some community service. Totally worth it.

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