She jumps

She had ****. Staying meant being trapped, surrounded, taken by dozens of strong, green hands that would pin her to the soft earth, tear at what little remained of her suit, **** her again and again until her body surrendered in involuntary spasms.

Closing her eyes tightly, she hugged her legs to her chest, her body curling into an instinctive fetal ball, her breasts pressed against her thighs, her platinum blonde hair falling like a wet curtain over her face. The wind of the fall lashed at her even before she jumped, a cold prelude that hardened her nipples to ache. She jumped.

The fall was both eternal and fleeting. The air roared around her, whipping her half-naked body, making the shreds of her blue suit flap like torn flags. The world spun in a swirl of green and blue, steam rising to meet her like ghostly fingers brushing against her exposed skin, chilling and exciting her at once. The impact with the water was a brutal shock, a cold punch that stole her breath, plunging her body into the turquoise depths with a **** that made her lungs burn.

She surfaced with a choked gasp, the icy water contrasting with the heat of her skin, making every pore open in a violent shudder. She swam against the current with **** strokes, her muscles burning with effort, the river pulling at her like a possessive lover unwilling to let go.

The ripped swimsuit, now completely soaked, clung to her body like an obscene second skin: the translucent blue fabric revealing the white bra beneath, the lace cups glued to her breasts, outlining her hardened nipples with cruel clarity. The white thong, minimal and delicate, was visible under the torn fabric of her hips, the triangle of wet fabric marking the mons pubis, her lips swollen with fear and adrenaline.

She reached the shore with a final effort, her hands clawing at the soft earth, her body emerging from the water in a slow, sensual motion, the liquid sliding over her curves like oil. She stood there for a moment, kneeling on the bank, water dripping from her blond hair, which now fell in heavy clumps over her shoulders, clinging to her bare back. Her white, soaked bra was almost invisible, her pink nipples visible like treacherous invitations. The thong was wedged between her buttocks, the damp fabric brushing against her clitoris with every slightest movement.

She looked up, panting, her blue eyes widening in pure shock. Towering above the trees on the other side of the forest, silhouetted against the darkening sky, was the Baxter Building.

Her home.

The headquarters of the Fantastic Four, with its distinctive shape, the broken windows now covered in thick vines, the structure enveloped in vegetation as if the jungle had reclaimed it centuries ago. But it was him. Unmistakable. It was close to home!

Her heart lurched, a mixture of **** hope and renewed grief. Reed was there, maybe. Or Johnny. Or Ben. Or at least answers. At once, she stood up, the water trickling down her thighs in cold rivulets, the clingy suit outlining every curve, every crease.

She ran again, plunging deeper into the trees, the woods closing in around her like a green, possessive lover, branches brushing against her damp skin, leaves licking her exposed breasts as the horde, across the river, roared their frustration at seeing her disappear into the distance.

Susan emerged from the last wall of vegetation as if the jungle itself had spat her out, a final, damp, green breath propelling her forward with fingers of vines and fleshy leaves that brushed once more against her drenched skin, leaving trails of sticky sap on her thighs and the lower curve of her breasts. The air here was different: drier, less laden with animal scent, but equally heavy, as if the building itself looming before her breathed an ancient, weary air.

The Baxter Building—her Baxter Building—stood half in ruins, the glass and steel facade that had once gleamed in the New York sun now covered by a thick layer of creeping ivy, broad, glossy leaves clinging to the broken windows like possessive lovers, thick roots plunging into the cracks of the concrete like throbbing veins. The fading light of dusk filtered in slanting, dying rays through the canopies of the surrounding trees, tinting the structure a sickly, almost sepulchral, ​​golden hue, while long shadows stretched from its base like fingers trying to reclaim what had once been human.

She ran toward it without thinking, her bare feet pounding the cracked asphalt covered in moss and rotting leaves, each impact sending waves of pain through the soles of her feet but also a strange sense of familiarity: she had trod this ground hundreds of times, even though it was now broken and reclaimed by nature.

The ripped dress, still soaked by the river, clung to her body with an utter obscenity: the translucent blue fabric outlined every curve, every fold, the white bra beneath completely visible, the lace cups adhering to her breasts like a wet second skin, her pink, hardened nipples pressing against the fabric with a clarity that made her feel exposed, already violated by the mere gaze of the world. The white thong, minimal and delicate, was see-through between her legs, revealing the mons pubis swollen with adrenaline and fear, the fabric wedged between her labia that grazed a treacherously sensitive clitoris with every stride.

He climbed the broken exterior stairs, hopping across cracks where vegetation had split the concrete, his hands scraping against rusted railings that left reddish stains on his palms. The elevator, of course, was dead, its doors ajar and covered in cobwebs as thick as rope. He took the fire stairs, ascending floor after floor, his legs trembling with exhaustion, his chest burning, fresh sweat mingling with the river water until his skin glistened as if coated in oil. Each landing was a cruel reminder: ripped doors, moss-covered walls, fragments of smashed furniture he vaguely recognized—a chair from the boardroom, a cracked control panel—now reclaimed by damp and time.

When he finally reached the penthouse, he pushed open the armored door—miraculously still on its hinges—with an aching shoulder and staggered into the space that had once been his home. It was empty.

The silence was absolute, broken only by her own ragged breathing and the slow drip of water from her platinum blonde hair, which fell in heavy clumps over her bare shoulders, sliding down her back and disappearing into the curve of her buttocks. The great main hall, with its panoramic windows now shattered and covered in ivy, was shrouded in a greenish gloom. The furniture was gone or reduced to rotting skeletons; the marble floor was covered in dust and dry leaves that crunched under her bare feet. The air smelled of abandonment: dampness, rotting wood, and a faint metallic trace that reminded her of the technology that had once filled these walls.

She searched for something. Anything. A weapon, clothing, a sign of life. She ran—or rather crawled, because her strength was barely holding out—toward the secondary laboratory, the place where Reed had installed the emergency ARC reactor, an alternative and infinite power source designed for catastrophic events. The console was there, covered in dust and cobwebs, but undamaged. Her trembling fingers, smeared with mud and superficial blood, pressed the activation sequence she knew by heart. A low hum began to grow, blue lights flickering faintly beneath the layer of grime, until the reactor sprang to life with a steady, warm pulse.

Immediately, in the center of the room, Roberta's holographic avatar materialized.

The digital figure appeared with a gentle smile, dressed in the classic assistant uniform, her hair pulled back in a neat bun, her eyes glowing with an artificial but unmistakable warmth. The hologram's bluish light illuminated Susan's exhausted face, casting dancing shadows across her half-naked breasts, across her flat stomach that rose and fell agitatedly, across her thighs marked by scratches and mud.

“Dr. Storm,” Roberta said in that calm, familiar voice, slightly modulated by the passage of time through the speakers. “It’s so good to see you again.”

Susan felt something inside her break and rebuild itself at the same time. A familiar face. A familiar voice. Even if it was digital, even if it was an AI, it was the closest thing to humanity she had experienced since waking up in this green hell. Tears sprang up unbidden, hot and fast, rolling down her grimy cheeks as a stifled sob escaped her throat.

“Roberta…” she whispered, her voice broken, hoarse with effort and fear. “Thank God…” She staggered toward the hologram, as if she could embrace it, her outstretched hands trembling in the air. The soaked suit clung even more tightly with movement, the translucent fabric revealing every detail of her exhausted yet still beautiful body: her hardened nipples, the curve of her waist, the white thong nestled between folds that glistened with a mixture of river water and sweat.

“I need your help,” she finally said, her voice vibrating with suppressed urgency. “Answers. Where am I? What happened? Is this world… is it Earth? What is this place? Why is the building here? Where are Reed, Johnny, Ben? Please… tell me something that makes sense.” Roberta tilted her head slightly, the smile still there, but now tinged with something else—digital compassion, perhaps, or simply data processing.

“Processing inquiry, Dr. Storm. Preparing full report. Please wait…” The hologram flickered for a moment, the blue light intensifying, illuminating Susan’s face with a cold glow that contrasted sharply with the warmth of her skin. Silence fell again, heavy and expectant, as the reactor hummed softly beneath their feet and the jungle outside whispered dark promises.

Roberta's hologram floated in the center of the abandoned room like a bluish-light ghost, her perfect, serene feminine form projected in a cold glow that contrasted brutally with the sticky heat still emanating from Susan's exhausted body, a heat that clung to her skin like an indecent promise, making the ripped, soaked suit stick to every curve with obscene transparency.

The silence was thick, broken only by the low hum of the reactor and Susan's ragged breathing, deep gasps that made her chest rise and fall with a hypnotic rhythm, the damp fabric brushing against her sensitive skin with each inhalation, sending small, involuntary shocks to her belly and lower, where the white thong was tucked into folds that throbbed with a mixture of fear and physical exhaustion. The temperature in the room was a cruel contrast: the stale, warm jungle air seeping through the broken windows, mixed with the artificial chill emanating from the hologram, making her skin prickle in successive waves, her nipples hardening until they ached, the sweat cooling at the base of her back before trickling between her buttocks in a slow, winding path.

Roberta tilted her head slightly, her digital expression serene but with a programmed hint of concern that made her holographic eyes seem to deepen, capturing the blue light and reflecting it like fake tears. Susan took another step closer, her legs trembling, her platinum blonde hair falling in heavy, damp strands across her face, clinging to her parted lips where her breath came hot and fast.

The proximity to the hologram was illusory—she couldn't touch her, couldn't feel the comfort of a human embrace—but she still reached out, her fingers passing through the cold light, feeling only an electric tingle that traveled up her arm to her bare shoulder, sending a shiver through her.