"This is so relaxing~"
Inside a luxurious high-rise apartment hidden behind tinted windows and soft curtains, JB lounges in the bathtub, utterly at ease.
The space exudes sophistication, but also a sense of perfect retreat: the dark marble, the polished surfaces, and the soft hum of the air conditioner all create an atmosphere that invites relaxation and escape.
The modern, spacious bathtub sits at the center of the room. Dim ceiling lights mimic the warmth of an eternal sunset, while small scented candles flicker gently, casting playful shadows on the gray stone walls and frosted glass.
Lavender and vanilla-scented steam floats through the air, clinging to the skin, the mirrors, the walls. The warm glow of the sunset filters through the curtains, bathing the room in amber hues that caress every corner… and every curve.
JB leans back against the edge of the tub with an almost feline tranquility. Her body, a perfect blend of elegance and tone, rests as if time itself had paused to admire it. Her soft, generous curves emerge partially from the water, subtly veiled by foam, as if the water itself were teasing the imagination.
Her long legs stretch out beneath the surface, one rising slightly, revealing the taut contour of her thighs and the perfect line of her calf. A droplet slides down from her knee to her ankle, dancing with every shift she makes.
Strands of golden-blonde hair cling lazily to her damp shoulders. Her icy blue eyes, half-lidded with serenity.
Her chest, just below the surface, rises and falls slowly with each breath. The gentle movement sends ripples across the water, keeping time with her breathing. The foam clings playfully to her form, covering just enough, inviting thought… and fantasy.
She lifts the wine glass with a slow, as if every movement were part of the moment itself. The rim touches her full lips, damp from the steam. The deep red wine stands in striking contrast to the softness of her skin, highlighting her air of sophistication… and just a hint of danger. In her blue eyes, now fixed on the fogged-up mirror, there's a flicker of mischief, nostalgia—and something else. Something unreadable.
Silence wraps around everything, broken only by the gentle splash of water.
JB tilts her head back, closing her eyes for a moment. Her long neck stretches slightly as a deep, satisfied sigh escapes her lips. The line from her collarbone to the top of her breasts glistens with moisture, the water clinging to her skin like it refuses to let go.
With one hand, she slowly trails her thigh, fingers gliding upward in a barely-there touch across warm, smooth skin. Her leg bends slightly, revealing the precise curve of her hip and the tempting dip of her waist, disappearing beneath the playful foam. Every motion feels effortless, as if sensuality were something she simply was, not something she had to think about.
A single drop falls from her chin, sliding down the center of her chest and tracing its way between the natural folds of her breasts—firm and perfectly shaped. JB watches the drop descend as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. She likes how it looks… how it feels.
She leans back a bit more, letting the water rise to her stomach, staying like that—one leg out, her foot playfully hovering in the air. Her other hand rests loosely between her hips, just beneath the water, in a gesture so subtle it borders on intimate but never crosses the line. There's nothing vulgar. Just a moment entirely her own—a quiet escape from the world, taken without apology.
Her eyes open slowly, glimmering with that look a woman wears when she knows exactly what she does to you. A smile curves her lips.
"It's almost a shame to be alone…" She murmurs, voice low and slightly provocative, as if the silence itself were smiling back in agreement.
The foam slips just a little, and for a heartbeat, her body seems carved from warm marble—perfect and serene. JB doesn't need words or wandering eyes to know she's desired. She can feel it, breathe it… revel in it.
And in that bathroom, wrapped in steam and stillness, it becomes a ritual—hers alone.
"Always alone..."
She says it out loud, with that blend of resignation and mockery that's become her internal signature.
When did it start? When did that strong, elegant woman—with hypnotic curves and an untamed gaze—become someone who touches herself just to feel alive?
Maybe it was the moment she realized her world had no room for real connections. Or maybe it was when she learned that loving someone... is a weakness.
Steam fogs the mirror in front of the tub, hiding her reflection, as if the glass itself knows there are things she'd rather not see. Not now.
JB shifts her leg, crossing it over the other beneath the water, hugging herself for a moment. Not from cold, but from that quiet need for comfort she'd never dare admit.
Her chest rises and falls, but this time it's not desire—it's that sharp, familiar emptiness. Not sadness. Not despair. Just that calm kind of loneliness that wraps around her like a second skin.
Familiar. Unbreakable...
-And who would stay?
She says it with a half-smile that never reaches her eyes.
"Who would stay with someone like me?"
She knows the answer. She always has.
Being desired isn't the same as being loved. Having power doesn't mean being held.
JB can seduce, dominate, captivate... but allow herself to be vulnerable? To open her chest and let someone in? That's a different game. One she might've already chosen not to play.
The wine is still there, untouched. The warmth of the bath is fading, but she doesn't move. She stays there, suspended between pleasure and emptiness, body relaxed, glistening, beautiful... and her soul, just as lonely as ever.
Her eyes, sharp and blue, drift without focus, lost somewhere between memory and thought. In that gentle silence, memories surface uninvited.
JB... Julia Bardera. Her real name, though to many, just a cold acronym. A shadow with perfect lips and powder-stained fingers. Though it's also a nickname, given by a dear friend.
Born to a foreign family, raised among military codes, strict rules, and a language that wasn't always her own. Her childhood wasn't tragic, but it wasn't happy either. It was more like training.
A mold.
Built to survive. To comply. To obey.
From a young age, she was recruited by Ichigaya—the secret agency pulling the strings behind the country's darkest affairs. It wasn't a choice. It was a natural, almost inevitable transition. Beautiful, brilliant, ruthless. She became a valuable asset, a figure of authority. A woman who could negotiate with cold precision, kill with flawless aim, and vanish without a trace.
"A good soldier doesn't need love." It was said to her once.
And she believed it.
She exhales slowly, sinking deeper into the water, letting it cover her belly, her chest, her neck... as if the heat could soothe the fire burning in her chest.
The world knows her as a woman of power. Tall, graceful, striking—her body seemingly carved for seduction, but her deadliest weapon has always been her mind.
She moves through shadows, signs papers that determine fates, commands operations where there's no room for mistakes—or emotion.
And the price of all that?
Silence.
Distance.
Loneliness.
-Being the head of a team of assassins doesn't exactly leave space for a 'good morning, love.' She thinks, with an irony that no longer amuses anyone. Not even herself.
In the bathtub, her skin begins to show the first signs of having spent too much time in the water—faint wrinkling on her fingertips.
And yet, she looks divine. Her body is still a temple: firm, exquisite, lethal. But she knows, deep down… that beauty, that perfection, is just another mask.
Another weapon.
A disguise she learned to wield for control.
Sometimes, in moments like this—when the water caresses her body and her mind begins to clear—her thoughts drift to Asako.
A friend, yes, though "friend" is a word JB finds hard to say without a trace of distrust. Asako is different. She lacks the shadows JB has come to live with. There's a simple, almost childlike vitality about her—stark against the world JB chose to inhabit.
They met at the orphanage, later again in the early stages of their training at Ichigaya, when both were just rookies in a ruthless world. Asako, so bold, so charismatic. And JB, so closed-off, so pragmatic. Back then, JB saw her as a kind of light in a world built on calculated darkness.
Over the years, their bond wasn't forged through words, but through quiet gestures. Asako never pushed her, just stayed through the darkest moments, asking for nothing in return. Her loyalty was simple. Pure. Something JB could barely grasp, yet it touched her in ways she couldn't explain.
Asako never questioned JB as her superior. Never made her feel she had to reveal more than she was willing. She just knew—without needing to say it—that there was more to her than the cold, distant figure everyone else saw. Maybe that's why their rare moments together always left her feeling… at ease.
"Not everyone is like me." JB muttered, her voice echoing faintly in the stillness of the room.
Asako was the only one who had managed to crack—even just slightly—the armor JB had built over the years. She was the one who saw her at her most vulnerable, the one who never judged her.
The only person JB could truly trust with her life—and vice versa. The only one she could, for the first time, genuinely call a friend.
The water starts to cool, and with a sigh, she rises, discarding those thoughts like an unnecessary layer.
As she reaches for the towel, something else slips into her mind—this time, tinged with mild irritation.
"I really need to stop drinking wine in the bathtub..." She thinks, her lips curving into a faint smirk.
Alcohol, that silent enemy she can't seem to refuse, begins to take hold. Vague thoughts and needless emotions seep into her mind as easily as the foam glides down her skin.
"I'm no good at this. Never have been. And now I'm philosophizing about… what? Friendship? Feelings? This isn't me... hahaha."
She laughs, though without any real joy. Alcohol always drags her into those dark corners, to thoughts she shouldn't entertain, to moments that edge closer to vulnerability than the relentless agent everyone expects her to be. She can't allow that to happen.
Maybe one day, drinking will be as satisfying as it once was—when she used to share lighthearted conversations with her friend. But since Asako was demoted, they've even begun to watch JB more closely, just in case she turns traitor.
A mask she must keep in place until she gathers what she needs—everything necessary to uncover the rot festering within those high-ranking parasites who think they hold absolute power. But their time will come, and Asako will be the one to end them.
JB shakes her head with disdain and, with a dry laugh, wraps herself in the towel. Solitude embraces her once more—but for now, she sends it off with an ironic smile.
"Not that it matters anyway."
With a steady stride, she steps out of the bathroom and heads toward her room—a space that mirrors her own personality: elegant, commanding, a bit aloof. The neutral-toned walls and luxurious finishes wrap around her like a private capsule, reflecting a lifestyle that is cold, controlled, yet laced with an innate sensuality.
The plush, dense carpet beneath her feet makes each step nearly silent, yet deliberate. The soft glow of the recessed lighting warms the room with subtle intimacy, turning the space into something comfortable, welcoming—almost like a private sanctuary where she can shed the façade she's always expected to wear.
With a brief glance at the full-length mirror on the wall, her eyes lock onto her own reflection. The figure before her is the one she's learned to embody in every way—flawless, elegant, lethal.
But for a moment, she allows herself a sigh, a pause, a fleeting breath to truly look at herself.
Her skin glistens, still damp, catching the light with a soft glow. The towel loosely wrapped around her slips from her shoulders, revealing her neck, her collarbone, her figure—defined, yet warm in its softness.
Calmly, she walks over to the wardrobe and begins to pick out the clothes that will return her to the real world—the one she must face with immaculate poise.
The first item she chooses is a black lace lingerie set. The soft fabric glides over her skin effortlessly, as if the material itself knows it's touching someone who can't afford imperfections.
The band hugs her body, accentuating the natural curve of her hips, while her fingers move delicately to adjust it. A quiet sigh escapes her lips as she watches the fabric mold to her shape, highlighting her femininity in a way that needs no words.
Next, she reaches for a matching lace bra, a minimalist design that covers only what's necessary. With practiced precision, she slips it on, adjusting the cups with a light press, feeling the fabric settle against her form. Every movement is slow, deliberate—time feels irrelevant in these moments, as if each piece of clothing offers a small indulgence of its own.
She then steps into her walk-in closet and selects a black leather pencil skirt—elegantly cut to fall just above the knees. She pulls it up over her thighs slowly, each movement smooth, almost hypnotic, as if she were posing for an unseen camera. The fabric fits like a glove, outlining her curves as her hips sway gently, unintentionally graceful, even with no one else in the room to see.
Finally, she picks up a dark silk blouse, almost gray, which drapes softly over her body. The fabric clings lightly to her skin, making her silhouette even more pronounced. Without rushing, she buttons it up one by one, letting each button fall perfectly into place as her body settles into the ensemble.
When she's finished, she steps back from the mirror, taking in the full image. The woman staring back is powerful—yet entirely aware of her own sensuality.
A woman who could have everything, but knows that nothing she wears can conceal what lies beneath: a leader, a commanding presence, someone who wields beauty and her body as tools of the trade.
And yet, beneath it all, she remains a woman who wrestles with loneliness, who grants herself nothing beyond control—except in rare moments like this, in the privacy of her room, when she allows a glimpse of indulgence in her own femininity.
"All right... what's next on today's agenda?" She murmurs to herself, taking a seat and slipping back into her usual demeanor.
Relaxed now, she opens her laptop and resumes her daily routine—reviewing documents, proposals, and upcoming assignments. Just another day at work.
But things are rarely that simple—especially when a chaotic conversation awaits, one that will demand more of her than ever before.