It was nearing one in the morning when they returned, fatigued and soaked in his tiny apartment. The fabric of her uniform— darkened in hue from the torrid of the earlier rain— was torn in several different places none too perverse, the biting effects of autumn's cold nipping at what skin was bared. An inaudible sigh was drawn from jaded lungs. Across the fair expanse of her shoulder and towards her collarbone a narrow, yet bloodied gash had marred the once smooth skin (a stigma she would forever to grimace darkly at every time she glimpsed in the mirror).

          Her thoughts were thrown in disarray, orbiting loosely around the snippet of how virtually humiliating, for the young clanswoman had always prided herself on the ability maintain a flawless form in midst of carnage. It had taken two long and arduous hours, but the alpha strain was finally taken under custody. Yet, still she felt the overwhelming urges for gratification, acicular digits a mere wisp as they'd danced across her sheathed blades.

          The thigh highs slid off first as she griped expressively under her breath, revealing a long pair of toned, milky legs, then her jacket (which had been thrown carelessly into the garbage can). One by one the layers were peeled off thoughtlessly until the ever-amiable femme was stripped down to a nondescript pair of boy-shorts and her collared shirt— and, it went without saying, her characteristic purple wristbands. The cotton garment was bled through with the stain of blood, a major detail that had somehow eluded her notice until then. —How utterly unpleasant, to be forced to bear a scar that would continue to remind her of her failure that day.