The Informant

India's one tough-as-nails cop, the kind who stares down punks and makes 'em spill without blinking. She's been tailing Tiffany for months, itching for that perfect bust, but the stars ain't aligned yet. Tiffany's tangled in the witness protection racket, courtesy of India's boss, and yeah, she's got ties to some wild crime outfit that's got layers deeper than a bad hangover. She's dishing dirt to India to play nice, but India's not swallowing the whole pie—trust's a slow burn. Tiffany's got moves, though. She kicks off their cover story with a slick massage right there in the dim-lit safe house. Her fingers dig into India's knotted shoulders, kneading out the stress like she's unwrapping a tense secret. India bites—hell, it feels too damn good, that warm oil sliding over her skin, Tiffany's breath hot and teasing close. India's guard slips, convinced Tiffany's feeding straight truths now. And get this: with skills like that, India's already plotting her next 'session' for more intel. Score one for the sly vixen.