She gets what she wants because she knows how people work. She’s not above using her body to achieve that either. She knows her strengths and plays to them with an understanding that often seems otherworldly. 

She has a pistol strapped to her hip, the cold metal in contrast with the warmth of her skin. Some think she sports such an accessory to intimidate, to make up for her small stature. I know better. She carries a pistol because she knows how to use it. She’s probably killed a man. 

She’s definitely killed a man, maybe more than one. 
Her movements are planned and precise. She always thinks before she speaks, but she doesn’t want you to know that. Some think they can see compassion in her eyes. I think her eyes just reflect your own. 

I’m sure she can drive, but she prefers to walk the city streets. She patrols her territory. Her animalistic instincts are governed by cruel, unfeeling rational. Some call her cold; I call her intense. The way she talks to you, she’s a scientist calculating a formula, measuring her words. 

Early morning, when she comes home, there is no one waiting for her. This fact fills her with pride. This place is hers, she made it for herself. I want so badly to invite myself in. But in breaking that seal of pride, I fear I may break her as well.  

After all, she’s nothing if not fragile.