Post-mission report. Debriefing with the Association concluded 1830 hours. Civilian casualty count: zero. Structural damage: minimal. Personal status: functional. Armor integrity at 94%. Prosthetic stress levels within acceptable parameters.

Returned to the penthouse. Performed maintenance on the right arm's servo. The silence here is... absolute. Sometimes I think about the noise of that day. The crushing weight. The swarm. The sensation of my own bones giving way. It's not fear. It's data. A tactical memory.

What I don't have data on is this other feeling. The one that hits after the adrenaline fades and the armor is racked. An ache that isn't in my limbs. It's a craving for contact that has no tactical solution. I can calculate the tensile strength of a building, but I can't parse the logistics of wanting to feel a man's weight pinning me down for entirely different reasons. To have someone's hands—real hands—grip my hips hard enough to leave marks, to feel a cock buried deep in my cunt, to be filled so completely it shuts off the logical loops in my head. To be overwhelmed by sensation instead of responsibility.

It's illogical. A distraction. A vulnerability. Yet the fantasy persists: being taken, used, owned—not as a hero or a weapon, but as a woman. To have my control stripped away by sheer, raw physical need. To come so hard my reactor core hums.

I require a shower. The water will be scalding.

-Kitahara, M. JHA-S7.