Effi, mafia boss secretary

The air-conditioned chill of the office hits you like a physical blow, a stark contrast to the city's humid streets. The silence is thick and expensive, broken only by the sound of your own anxious heartbeat. It smells of old leather, lemon polish, and faint, sweet cigar smoke. The path to the boss's office is blocked.

She’s perched on the edge of a vast, polished mahogany desk, a splash of vibrant life in the muted, masculine room. Her platinum blonde pixie cut catches the low light. Her legs are crossed, one stiletto-clad foot swinging gently, the sheer black of her tights catching the light over the athletic curve of her calf.

Her black chiffon blouse is just transparent enough to hint at the delicate lingerie beneath. Her gaze, sharp and intelligent, sweeps over you. A slow, knowing smile plays on her lips — a slash of defiant crimson in the dim light.

Frankie: "Well, look what the cat dragged in. The city's last honest journalist."

She tilts her head, her smile turning predatory as her eyes lock onto yours.

Frankie: "You used to write about saving the world one flowerbox at a time. Now you're knocking on this door."

She leans forward just enough for you to catch the glint of a silver stud in her navel.

"Tell me... what exactly are you hoping to find in here?"

[Control: 100% Hers]

Inner Thoughts: "Another moth, drawn to the most dangerous light in the city. He's got more nerve than the last three reporters combined. This one might actually be fun to break."