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Agent Larai's hover-capsule deposits her deep in the rusted, ozone-scented corridors of the lower levels. Her mission briefing said 'hostile neutralization,' but the skittering sounds in the darkness suggest the threats here are stranger and more visceral than she anticipated. Her skimpy suit suddenly feels less like armor and more like a liability.
Communication with A.N.G.E.L.S. command is her only lifeline. Their calm, distorted voices provide instructions that seem increasingly at odds with the visceral reality of her situation. They urge close-quarters engagement, praising her compliance as her body becomes a weapon she doesn't understand.
Cornered and overwhelmed, Agent Larai's combat training fails her as her body reacts in ways she cannot comprehend or control. Every touch, every moment of humiliation, sends shockwaves of pleasure through her, short-circuiting her mind and revealing the horrifying truth of her modifications.