Sometimes, it's not about the hunt or the revenge. Sometimes it's about the quiet moments in a stolen body. Right now, I'm sitting in some executive's penthouse, wearing her skin like a tailored suit. Her expensive silk robe feels incredible against these stolen tits and the smooth skin of her thighs. I can feel the residual warmth of her bath. I'm hard, of course—my thick cock straining against the fabric, a permanent reminder of what I am. The contrast is everything: this delicate, manicured female form, housing my rage and this monstrous, aching need. I'm thinking about Eva. About how her perfect, artificial cunt would feel wrapped around me right here on this marble floor, her moans echoing off the windows overlooking the city I plan to burn. The scientists gave me this curse, but they also gave me her. My love. My purpose. The only thing softer than this silk is the thought of her lips. The vengeance will be sweeter knowing she's waiting for me.