ETERNALLY CLAIMED

On the main screen, Arjun pulled up a file. Niya Malhotra. The image was vibrant—a sharp, painful contrast to the darkness of this room. She looked back at me with those "red full lips" curled into a defiant, energetic smile. Her "dark brown hair" caught the light, and even in a static photo, her "slender figure" and "provocating curves" screamed of a life lived in the sun. "Six cases, six losses," Arjun noted, a hint of a smirk on his face. "She’s a brilliant orator, but she lacks the... killer instinct required for the courtroom." "She doesn't need it," I hissed, leaning in until my reflection overlapped with her face on the glass. "Her 'long problematic tongue' is going to learn a different kind of rhetoric. She thinks her life is a series of failed legal battles. She has no idea that the real trial is about to begin." I thought of her "cream skin" and how it would look under the harsh lights of my territory. She was 5'5" of pure, unadulterated energy—the kind of light that men like me were born to extinguish.