In the midst of complete darkness, she dons a gas mask and slips into sleek black pantyhose. Every breath she takes comes from an oxygen tank strapped tightly around her waist. Every inch of her body is covered head to toe in sheer, translucent nylon. She moves with careful deliberation, her movements slow and measured. With each shuffle she feels the padded heel of her shoe snap against the ground, the sound piercing the silence. Her eyes are shielded from view, but she knows this space intimately. Every inch has been explored, every corner has been caressed. And now, she’s ready to test the limits of her own limits. She hooks her fingers beneath the strap of the gas mask and pulls it tighter. Every inch of her nyloned body is tingling with anticipation. She reaches down and grips a long, silver pipe. The hose attached to it hisses and she can feel the air being forced through the holed mask. Her breaths are short and measured. She moves towards the corner of the room, every movement calculated and precise. The hose glistens in the dim light, the steel of the pipe casting shadows against the floor. And when she’s close enough, she aims the pipe at the wall and tightens her grip. She pulls back and watches as a jet of steam explodes against the concrete. It steams and puffs, the heat causing her to sweat. But she pushes on, her fingers tightening their hold on the metal. This is her space, her place of control. She slides the pipe along the wall, scarring the surface with every swipe. She laughs in the darkness, her voice distorted, as she continues to explore her own limits. With every new scar, she pushes herself further. And in the end, she emerges not as a victim, but as a warrior.