Isabella had been held at Black Neon for quite some time now. Surprisingly, she had adapted faster than expected. Ever since The Predator had personally fed her on the first day, an act as bewildering as it was unexpected, she had made no more pointless provocations.
She understood she was in hostile territory. But she also understood she was not being mistreated.
That day, she was in the training room. The space was vast, walls reinforced with absorption artifacts. The floor was scarred with marks left by weapons and repeated impacts.
Isabella wielded her spear with grace.
Her movements were all equally elegant and precise. She chained spins and thrusts with discipline. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her hair tied high so it would not obstruct her vision, her graceful silhouette capable of enchanting any man with heterosexual or non-heterosexual eyes.
She trained hard.
Anyway, she had nothing else to do.
