Renji stumbled out of Room 106, his legs feeling like jelly.
Behind him, the sound of Tsunade's heavy, satisfied snoring vibrated through the doorframe like a sleeping dragon. He had barely survived. His hands still burned with the phantom sensation of her skin—that impossible mixture of iron-hard muscle and suffocatingly soft, fluid fat.
He leaned against the cool metal railing of the hallway, gasping for air. The [Eternal Stamina] skill was the only thing keeping him upright, pumping energy back into his depleted system, but his mind was still reeling from the sheer, unadulterated volume of the Fifth Hokage.
Status Update: Pheromone Level Stabilizing...
Warning: New S-Class Target Detected in Vicinity.
"Oh no," Renji whispered, wiping a bead of sweat from his upper lip.
Before he could retreat to the safety of the stairwell, a door down the hall—Room 105—creaked open.
It didn't open normally. It slid open with a sinister, silent smoothness, like a blade being drawn from a sheath.
A woman stepped out.
If Tsunade was a chaotic storm of heat and pressure, this woman was a silent, lethal void of beauty. She had long, raven-black hair that fell straight to her waist, and eyes the color of fresh arterial blood. She was wearing a red sweater-dress that was entirely backless, held together by a few thin strings that dug deliciously into her pale skin.
It was Yor Forger. The Thorn Princess.
But she wasn't holding her golden needles. She was holding a bag of trash, and she looked... distressed.
"Oh!" Yor gasped, her red eyes widening as they landed on Renji.
The bag of trash slipped from her fingers.
THUD.
Whatever was in that bag was heavy. It didn't sound like garbage; it sounded like broken bones and wet organic matter.
"I... I am so sorry!" Yor squeaked, her cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. The sudden movement caused her dress to shift, the red fabric clinging desperately to the lethal, sculpted curves of her hips. "I didn't know anyone else was awake at this hour! I was just... cleaning up my... cooking mistakes."
Renji swallowed hard. The air around her smelled different than Tsunade's room. It smelled of metallic iron, roses, and something sharp—like ozone before a lightning strike.
"It's okay," Renji managed to say, stepping forward. "Do you need help?"
Yor looked at him. Her gaze dropped to his hands—the hands that had just serviced a Sannin. Her nostrils flared slightly.
"You..." Yor took a step back, her back hitting her own doorframe. She looked flustered, her breath hitching. "You smell like... a man. A strong man."
She shook her head violently, her black hair whipping around like a silk curtain.
"Actually... neighbor-san..." She bit her lip, looking up at him through her long, dark lashes. "I do need help. I was trying to make a stew for my brother, but I... I had an accident with the olive oil."
She stepped aside, gesturing into her apartment.
"It's very... slippery," she whispered.
Renji knew he should run. He knew this was a trap. But the [Milf Magnetism] passive skill dragged him forward like a hook in his navel.
He stepped into Room 105.
If Tsunade's room was a sauna, Yor's room was a sterilized operating theatre that had been turned into a butcher shop. The kitchen was a disaster zone. There were slash marks on the cabinets—clean, precise cuts that had sliced through solid wood. A pot was boiling over on the stove, emitting a purple, ominous steam.
But the floor...
The linoleum was coated in a thick, glistening layer of oil. And right in the middle of the puddle lay a single, lonely high-heel shoe.
"I was trying to tenderize the meat," Yor confessed, closing the door behind them. Click. The sound of the lock turning was deafening. "And I slipped."
She walked past him toward the kitchen. She moved with a terrifying grace, but as her stocking-clad foot hit the oil slick, physics took its revenge.
"Kyaaa!"
It wasn't a normal fall. It was a display of superhuman flexibility.
Yor's legs slid apart. She dropped into a perfect, impossible split right in the center of the oil puddle.
RIIIIIP.
The sound of tearing nylon tore through the silence.
Renji's eyes bulged.
Yor was stuck in the split, her legs spread wide on the slick floor. The black stockings she wore—opaque, thick, and tight—had surrendered. A massive tear ran from her knee all the way up her inner thigh, exposing a stretch of skin that was blindingly pale and slick with oil.
"Oh my..." Yor breathed, her face turning atomic red. She placed her hands on the floor to push herself up, but her hands slipped in the grease, causing her chest to lurch forward.
The red sweater-dress, already struggling to contain her athletic frame, dipped dangerously low. Gravity pulled at the fabric, revealing the tops of her breasts—pale, heavy, and heaving with exertion.
"I... I can't get up," she whimpered, looking up at Renji with wide, watery eyes. "My legs... they're so slippery. And I think... I think I pulled a muscle in my thigh."
Renji's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The visual was overloading his brain. The deadliest assassin in the world, reduced to a clumsy, helpless mess on the kitchen floor, drenched in oil, her modesty hanging by a literal thread.
"Help me, neighbor-san," she pleaded, her voice dropping to that husky, dangerous tone that made Renji's knees weak. "Please? My legs... they need... stability."
Renji walked forward, his boots squelching in the oil. The smell was overpowering now—the scent of the olive oil mixing with the distinct, metallic tang of Yor's adrenaline and the sweet, floral perfume she wore on her pulse points.
He reached down. "Grab my hands."
Yor reached up. Her hands were gloved in black leather, but the fingers were strong—crushing strength hidden in a velvet touch. She gripped his hands, but she didn't pull herself up.
Instead, she pulled him down.
"Whoa!"
Renji slipped. He fell forward, landing on his knees right between her spread legs.
The impact splashed oil onto his jeans. He was inches from her now. Her face was flushed, her lips parted. He could feel the heat radiating from her inner thighs—a dry, feverish heat that spoke of incredible muscle density and pent-up energy.
"You're so close..." Yor whispered, her eyes losing focus. The pupils dilated until the red iris was just a thin, burning ring.
"Yor-san, your dress..." Renji croaked.
"Forget the dress," she panted. She let go of his hands and reached out, her gloved fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "My thigh... the muscle right here..."
She guided his hand to her inner thigh, right where the stocking had ripped.
Renji's fingers made contact.
Shock.
Her skin was electric. It was smooth as glass, lubricated by the oil, but the muscle beneath was like coiled steel. It twitched under his touch.
"Nnngh~!"
Yor threw her head back, her neck arching elegantly. A sound escaped her throat—a sharp, involuntary cry that sounded too much like pleasure to be pain.
"It hurts..." she lied, her voice thick and syrup-heavy. "But your hand... it feels so hot. Why does it feel so good?"
She clamped her legs inward instinctively, trapping Renji's hand between her powerful thighs. The pressure was immense. He could feel the terrifying strength she possessed—she could crush a watermelon, or a human skull, with these legs. But right now, she was using that strength to keep his hand pressed against her most sensitive skin.
"Rub it," she commanded. The shy, clumsy housewife facade was cracking. The predator was peeking through. "Massaging is good for injuries, isn't it? That's what a good husband would do."
"I'm not your husband, Yor-san!" Renji gasped, struggling to maintain his composure as the scent of roses and female heat filled his lungs.
"But you could be," she murmured, leaning forward. Her chest pressed against his chest. He could feel the rapid, frantic beating of her heart through her ribs. "You're strong. You survived the Tsunade-woman next door. I heard her screaming... I was... jealous."
She locked her legs tighter. The oil made everything slick, sliding, wet.
"Fix me," she hissed into his ear, her breath hot and sharp. "Rub the pain away. Go deeper. The muscle attaches... higher up."
Renji's hand slid upward, guided by her insistence and the slippery oil. He reached the hem of the torn stocking, where the nylon bit into the soft flesh of her upper thigh.
Yor shuddered. Her whole body vibrated. She looked at him, her expression a terrifying mask of innocence and lust.
"If you heal me..." she whispered, licking her lips, "I'll make you dinner. I'll make you anything you want. I'll even... let you use the other bedroom. The one with the soundproof walls."
Renji looked at the Thorn Princess, sprawled in a pool of oil, her dress in ruins, trapping him with thighs that could kill, begging for his touch.
The [Milf Magnetism] hummed in his brain, louder than ever.
"Okay," Renji breathed, surrendering to the madness for the second time that morning. "Let's fix that leg."
Yor smiled. It wasn't her polite smile. It was the smile of a wolf that had just caught a very juicy, very willing sheep.