Dectective's "Investigation"

[taoschild]

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Miggie folds her arms, clearly enjoying herself. "That's not how timing works. That's how detectives who are about to get laid work. Tell me — does Katana know you're bringing company, or am I about to walk in on something I can't unsee?"

I sigh. "You're not coming inside."

She tilts her head, lips curving into a teasing smile. "And you are? Bold choice the night before a major case development. Very professional."

"That's the plan."

"And I'm supposed to sit in the cold car like backup in a bad movie while you go handle your... witness interview?"

"Exactly like that," I say. "Try not to eat all the popcorn."

"I don't eat popcorn."

"That's probably for the best. It would ruin the aesthetic."

She gives me a look that suggests I've said something wrong, but she lets it go. For now. When we arrive, Miggie scans the street, then the building, then the windows with sharp, professional eyes. The longer I work with her, the more impressed I am. Her instincts are strong for someone who's never worked homicide.

"You nervous?" she asks.

"Always," I say.

"Good."

"Why is that good?"

"Means you're paying attention."

"I'm always paying attention."

She glances at me, a sly little smile tugging at her lips. "You're paying attention to different things right now. Like how fast you can get upstairs and into Katana's bed."

I feel heat creep up my neck. "Jesus, Miggie."

"What? I'm just being supportive. Partner stuff." Her tone is light, but her eyes are sparkling with amusement. "Make sure you stretch first. Wouldn't want you pulling anything important."

I push back, uncomfortable. "You know, for someone who claims she's not here to ruin my day, you're doing a hell of a job."

She laughs softly. "Relax, Jake. I'm just messing with you. Mostly. Though I have to admit, I'm curious how you're going to explain this tomorrow morning."

I don't respond to that, which is my way of acknowledging she's right without giving her the satisfaction of hearing it out loud.

"I'll be back in a bit," I say, opening the door.

"If you're not," she replies, "I'm coming in."

"That's comforting," I say.

"It's supposed to be."

The hallway smells like someone tried to clean it and gave up halfway through, which I respect. Consistency is overrated.

I knock on Katana's door. There's a pause. Then movement. Then the door opens. And once again, I have to adjust.

Because she's—Bigger. Again. Bigger than just hours earlier if that's even possible. At this point, I'm starting to feel like I should bring a measuring tape and a clipboard, just so I can confirm I'm not hallucinating progressive muscle gain in real time.

"You're staring," she says.

"I'm observing," I reply.

"That's still staring."

"I like to think of it as professional curiosity."

"You're not a professional in this field."

"I'm expanding my skill set."

She steps aside, letting me in.

"That sounds dangerous," she says.

"You have no idea."

Inside, her place feels the same, but she doesn't.

That's the problem.

Everything else is consistent—the lighting, the layout, the quiet control of the space. But she moves through it differently now, like she's slightly ahead of herself, like her body got a head start and the rest of her is catching up.

She closes the door behind me.

"You want a drink?" she asks.

"What are my options?"

"Water."

"I'll take water."

"Bold choice."

"I like to stay unpredictable."

She hands me a glass, and I take it, watching her as she moves.

There's more density in her shoulders now, more definition cutting through even at rest. Her arms look tighter, fuller, like the muscle is pushing outward instead of just sitting there. It's subtle, but it's not.

"You've been busy," I say.

She smiles. "You noticed."

"I'd be concerned if I didn't."

"Why?"

"Because it's happening fast."

"Fast is good," she says.

"Fast is suspicious," I reply.

"Fast is winning," she says curling her wrist to her chin. The muscle wells up into something that can only be described as a bicep mountain. It's thick, veiny peak that rises higher and higher, splitting into a sharp, striated summit. The vein running across the peak throbs visibly, thick and blue, as the massive muscle hardens into dense, granite-like perfection. Her skin stretches tight and shiny over the insane girth, every striation carved deep like a roadmap of raw power.

My breath catches. The sheer size of it makes my cock twitch hard in his pants. It looks inhuman. Godlike. She holds the flex casually, watching my reaction with dark amusement, letting the mountain of muscle pulse and twitch right in front of my face.

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I take a sip of water. My phone buzzes. It's Miggie.

Suspicious guy circling the area. I'll keep eyes on him and update if anything changes.

I stare at the message a second too long. Not enough information to act on, but too much to ignore. I thumb a quick acknowledgment back and lock the screen again.

No advice I can give from here would matter. That's the problem with surveillance, you either see it or you don't. "So," I say, slipping the phone back into my pocket, "tell me more about your new friends."

She leans against the counter, arms crossed.

"You mean the people helping me win?"

"I mean the people handing out mystery powder like it's Halloween."

She laughs. "They're not new, and you're exaggerating."

"I'm simplifying."

"It's just a supplement," she says.

"Yeah," I reply. "And I'm just a guy who trusts unlabeled substances handed to him by strangers." "Do you trust me?"

"I do," I say.

She pauses. That matters to her.

Good.

"Then trust that I know what I'm doing," she says.

I shake my head slightly. "Those aren't the same thing."

Katana unscrews the container and dumps a scoop into a shaker bottle. I watch her do it. Not because I care about supplements. Because I care about timing.

She doesn't hesitate. Doesn't measure twice. Doesn't question it. Just pours, mixes, drinks. Like she's done it a hundred times.

"There," she says after swallowing. "You both look disappointed."

"I'm a detective," I reply. "Disappointment is part of the uniform. I thought you said twice."

"More recently three times. It helps me recover, especially if my training is heavy."

"Who told you to do that?"

"The company."

She cuts me off by stepping close and pressing a finger to my lips.

"Not tonight," she says, voice low. "I didn't ask you here to talk about supplements, Jake. I called you here because I need this."

Before I can respond, she pulls me in and kisses me. It's hard, hungry, and commanding. Her hands are already sliding under my shirt, gripping me with strength that feels even greater than last time.

I try once more, mumbling against her mouth. "This is important—"

"So is this," she growls, shoving me toward the bedroom. "You can play detective later."

The rest of my objections disappear the moment she peels off her tank top.

She's massive. The changes still don't match any normal progression curve. Even this close, it feels like data I'm not supposed to have access to. Her body is at competition peak — dense, full, and overwhelming. She looks like she was built to win.

My eyes are drawn helplessly to her chest. Her pecs are thick and powerfully striated, two heavy slabs of muscle that dominate her upper body. Yet sitting proudly atop that hardness are her breasts. They're full, round, and beautifully feminine. The large curves defy gravity with the kind of youthful perkiness that makes the contrast even more striking. Her nipples are perfect: dark, stiff, and beautifully shaped, standing out against the dense muscle beneath them like delicate accents on a sculpture of raw power.