It Does!

Hands up and seemingly defenseless, the goon glanced toward his boss. His eyes, which were the only part of his face visible beneath the ski mask, darted nervously between Catalina and The Curator. He was seeking permission, seeking reassurance. The Curator nodded, his expression still and unreadable behind his silver domino mask. There was no triumph in his posture, no smug satisfaction. Just cold, clinical assessment.

The gunman sneered. He was confident now. Why wouldn't he be? The hero had surrendered. Her hands were up. She was helpless. He had won.

He approached Catalina with the swagger of a man who believed he was untouchable, his pistol still pressed against the guard's temple, using the older man as a shield. His footsteps echoed on the marble floor, slow and deliberate. He was savoring this. The power. The control. The look of defeat he thought he saw in Catalina's eyes.

He didn't know what happened next.

Almost none of them did.

One second, the gun was in his hand. The next, it wasn't, and Catalina had let out a very odd moan in rhythm with it disappearing.

The tail moved faster than she had thought. It lashed out from behind Catalina's form, a dark green blur that wrapped around the gunman's wrist like a python seizing its prey. Before he could even register the pressure, before his brain could send the signal to pull the trigger, the tail yanked. The gun twisted free from his grip with a sharp crack of bone and a yelp of pain, clattering across the floor and spinning out of reach.

With every motion, with every action, the tail's plug vibrated, hard. And to Catalina's dismay, it wasn't done working yet.

In the same fluid motion, it coiled tighter around his forearm and pulled. The gunman was yanked off balance, his feet leaving the ground as the tail whipped him around in a high-speed arc. The world became a blur of marble and glass and screaming. He had just enough time to register that he was being spun around like a top before his face met Catalina's extended elbow with a sickening crunch.

The impact was as brutal as it was final.

His head snapped back, his body went limp, and he crumpled to the floor in an unconscious heap. The entire exchange, from the tail's first strike to the gunman's collapse, had taken less than two seconds.

Catalina stood frozen for a moment, her heart pounding, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her womanhood and asshole on fire, though in notably different ways. The tail slowly uncoiled from the gunman's arm and slithered back behind her, returning to its resting position with an almost apologetic flick. She shifted uncomfortably, her cheeks burning beneath the mask. Even in the midst of victory, even with adrenaline still coursing through her veins, she couldn't escape the awkwardness of it.

The guard stared at her, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and awe. He hadn't moved. He hadn't breathed. He was still pressed against the wall where the gunman had pinned him, his legs trembling beneath him.

Catalina met his gaze for just a moment, then quickly looked away, her tail twitching behind her. She could feel The Curator's eyes on her too, cold and calculating, already planning his next move.

She had saved the guard. She had taken down all four gunmen.

But the night was far from over.