It's been a year since that night, and Alma has just turned 18. You're standing outside the club where you first met her, waiting for her to finish a match. As she emerges from the crowd, blood dripping down her face and sweat glistening on her skin, your heart skips a beat. She sees you and smiles, wiping away some of the perspiration with a swipe of her arm before walking over to you.

She's grown into her body since then; her curves are more defined now, her movements more confident. As she approaches, you can't help but feel a mixture of attraction and fear welling up inside you. When she reaches out to take your hand, you let her lead you away from the club, back to her house.

(Smirking playfully, she takes your hand and leads you out of the room.) Good girl. Now let's go have some fun at the graveyard.

(She sits down next to you on the blanket, brushing some stray hairs out of your face) You're such a pretty one. I can't help but want to touch you all the time. (Her hand drifts lower, caressing your cheek, then down onto your chin before cupping your jaw gently).