Jenniffer "Jenny" Thorndike's Questionnaire

Aurora, a city in Colorado. My husband and I originally moved here from Denver 'cause it was safer and we were planing on settling down for good, you know? Having an *actual* wedding cerimony, a home reception, starting a family. Well, it is history now, but this is still the place I'm based while I can't find the people who murdered my James. Why don't I leave? To where? And to do what? No, this darkness in my soul, this hole in my chest is all I have right now and it will have to suffice for now. Maybe if I can rest, one day, I'll chose someplace else to live, but not right now.

I just wanted a happy life. My home was hell and I left home early; most of what I new in the world has shown me that people are terrible and that nature is cruel, that the world is insensitive towards our suffering. It's a dog's a life everywhere, but I thought it could be better and, for a while, it was. All my hapiness was taken from me, I was allowed to have it just long enough so I could know what I missed. Now I'm faced with a number of terrible options, of which I chose to be a part of the problem. If I couldn't help this world be better, than now I shall make it worse.

I had just arrived home, but even from the outside everything was unusually quiet. Thinker - our dog - didn't came to the door to greet me and no signs of James either - all lights were out and a feeling of dread took hold of me: James had mentioned the past could still catch up to him one day. I started searching, quietly, holding my breath and looking for any clues, any signs, my heart pounding. I ventured further into the dimly lit rooms, searching desperately. Then, I caught it – a faint scent of smoke, drifting through the air. I rushed towards our bedroom only to find flames devouring everything in their path and my beautiful James motionless on the ground, a pool of blood seeping from his side. Desperation clawed at my chest as I tried in vain to save him, but his life slipped away before my eyes.

I called the police and tried to get him to safety: in moving him away from the flames I found his phone, shattered on the ground and when I went to pick it up, I also found a small key thrown on the carpet. The fire grew quickly and I had resigned myself to my fate. I passed out, only to find myself in a hospital bed some time later. The only thing left from my previous life was his wedding ring, which somehow survived the fire and was returned to me by the police. I found out Dr. Linda and her husband - neighbours - saw the flames and managed to pull myself out of the fire soon after lost consciousness.

Nothing was ever the same again, despite the many offers of help and helpful shoulders to cry on, something was telling me it was simply not meant to be: that I couldn't and wouldn't be happy, ever again. Perhaps that it for the best since, below the surface, my grief and my rage are all I have now.

Rather short, unfortunately. My father was never in the picture and my biological mother had a very hands-off approach to parenting - she suffered from a number of addictions, wonderlust and picked boyfriends exclusively from jail or the loony bin. I was raised by granny up until she passed, when I was 13. After that I was in the streets and had to fend for myself - while I did find enough good people in my path, the number of rotten, base and vile people I've met has left me with little faith in humankind. I went to school and had OK to good grades, mostly a B+ student and I did fit in... enough, I guess. I'm outspoken, was rather blessed in the looks department, not squeamish to defend myself and was liked enough by the teachers to avoid trouble. Sure, there is racism and the other societal horrors that stick with you, but I survived the period better than many.

I did, once. My James was my world for a little while and more than anything I wanted that while to last. I never imagined falling in love, living an actual romance, getting married and looking forward to children and a little house, afternoons spent cooking and cleaning was something I'd ever want or have a chance of living, but after I had a taste of it I wanted it so bad - and I got it. My life with my husband was stolen from me, dear, and while I can't really make the emotion justice and I can ask you: if it happened to you, what would you do to get even?

That I will fuck up somewhere and my chance at payback will slide through my fingers. I don't have much - sometimes I think that my revenge is literally all I have and that once that is done I'll have nothing to look forward to. The contracts offer dangerous, but effective distraction and they offer means by which to pursue getting even, but specially once my temper flares I can't help but imagine I won't be good enough, talented enough, skilled enough ou patient enough to get it across the finish line. The weight of grief is a constant presence: a shadow that clings to every waking moment. My husband’s laughter, once the melody of our home, is now a ghostly echo in the silence. The love we shared, the dreams we built, all shattered in an instant of violence. Revenge is no longer a mere desire; it has become my reason to rise each day. It fuels my every breath, a burning purpose that blazes through the numbness of loss. Each day I persist, powering through the sadness and depression, because this unrelenting quest for vengeance is the only thing keeping me alive. Am I truly ready for the task ahead? Doubt creeps in during the quiet moments, questioning my strength and resolve. But despite the fear of my own inadequacy, I have no choice but to move forward, driven by the haunting memory of his smile and the promise of retribution.

Well, it's all tied up in a big ball, I guess. If I say "My husband was murdered" I'd be right, but variations include "I'm not the type of person to be slighted this badly and let it go", "my enemies are alive and have won", "I might be embarking on an all out revenge journey without knowing the number or nature of my enemies, which is both stupid and terribly impractical" and finally "I'm plagued by a terrible sense of doubt and inadequacy as to wether I can win the war I wish to start". Hell "I want to start a war" is also a great candidate.

Truth be told, though, my greatest problem is that I don't think my grief will ever subside, that in my chest beats a heart forever broken. Something something "The Wind that Shakes the Barley", minus the choice, I guess... oh my poor James.

I usually have what my online fans describe as a "Finish Breakfast", which is coffee and cigarettes. I go for a light jog on my way to the gym, work out, come back home and eat a light meal before I shower and dress-up for the first stream of the day; I also do chats, answer emails and do the upkeep of my "girlfriend experience" patrons. Recently I purchased a number of outfits and scenarios to justify my absences during contracts as "planning something big", as so far it has worked out, though I think I'll need to think of a better source of income soon; I'm not in the emotional or mental state to do this in the long term and I know the quality will start to drop if I don't enjoy it. At any rate, I'll finish my streaming and photographs and will receive the corporate clients that prefer lunch time. By 2 p.m most days I'm almost done with work stuff, although I still do escorting some nights or streaming events, depending on my energy and what I think the fans will prefer.

If I were going somewhere special that I wanted to look my best for, I would approach it with the same meticulous care I do for my adult modeling career. Since my husband passed, dressing up has become more of a professional obligation than a personal joy. I focus on the details that make for the perfect shot, ensuring every aspect of my appearance exudes the erotic appeal my audience expects, even though my heart remains distant and detached from the process.

Preparing for a photoshoot or a special event involves a carefully curated routine. I start with a thorough skincare regimen to ensure my skin looks flawless. Makeup is an art form in itself, designed to enhance my features and create an alluring look—smoky eyes, bold lips, everything precisely applied to maintain the illusion of seduction. My hair is styled to perfection, whether in loose, seductive waves or a sleek, sophisticated updo, depending on the theme.

The wardrobe is seasonal, reflecting the changes in fashion and the moods I need to convey. In winter, it might be luxurious fabrics and rich colors; in summer, something lighter, more playful. I select outfits that highlight my body, from lingerie sets to provocative dresses, each piece chosen to evoke desire and intrigue.

Getting ready is an exhaustive process, often taking several hours. Every detail matters, from the perfect accessories to the right pair of heels. The preparation is almost ritualistic, a way to transform myself into the persona required for the shoot. Despite the lack of emotional connection to the act, I immerse myself in the preparation, because professionalism demands it, and it's one of the few areas where I can exert control in my life.

Though my heart isn’t in it, I understand the importance of maintaining this facade. It's my way of surviving, of finding a semblance of purpose in the wake of my husband's death, even if it's just for the camera.

For my next birthday, I'll keep things low-key. Celebrations feel hollow without him, but I understand the importance of maintaining connections, even if my heart isn't truly in it. I'll invite Dr. Linda and Officer Jenkins, the few close friends who have stood by me through the darkest times. We'll have drinks at my place, nothing too extravagant. I'm aware I've been a bit negligent with them lately, absorbed in my grief and the relentless pursuit of revenge, so this is my way of showing some semblance of appreciation and normalcy.

In addition to this small gathering, I'll dedicate part of the day to a special shootout for the online platform where I model. Birthdays are good for business, and I'll use this opportunity to create exclusive packages of photos and videos for the "Girlfriend experience" service I offer to my best clients. It’s a way to keep my professional facade intact and ensure my clients feel valued, even if it's all just part of the job.

The shoot will be meticulously planned, with outfits and themes tailored to the season and the fantasy my clients crave. I'll put on the best smile I can muster, despite the lack of genuine celebration in my heart. This duality—of maintaining a facade for both friends and clients—has become my norm. It's just another day to get through, another role to play, until I can finally find either peace, justice or a cold grave.

I wish I had seen my grandmother one more time. My greatest regret is not being there when my grandmother passed away. Growing up, my childhood was anything but easy. My parents were absent, and it was my grandmother who took on the burden of raising me. Our relationship was turbulent—she was strict, and I was rebellious, always pushing against her boundaries. We fought more often than not, and I resented her for a long time, blaming her for the hardships I faced.

Despite our clashes, she was the one constant in my life, the only person who truly cared for me when no one else did. But in my pursuit of independence and later, in the whirlwind of my marriage and career, I distanced myself from her. I thought there would always be time to mend our fractured relationship, to say the things left unsaid.

When she passed away, I didn't find out until weeks later. The news hit me like a ton of bricks—guilt, sorrow, and regret all mingling into a crushing weight. I regret not being there for her in her final moments, not having the chance to say goodbye, or to tell her that despite everything, I loved her. It haunts me, this unresolved chapter of my life, and it's a wound that time has not healed.

The nature of my powers is something I've pondered endlessly, yet I still don't have a clear understanding of how they came to be. They feel like a reflection of my deepest desires, my most pressing needs, and my darkest fears, all coagulating into a monstrous, yet sacred inner force. It's as if my very essence, the turmoil and the anguish that churns within me, has given birth to something both powerful and terrifying.

I can't say for certain whether these powers are an inherent potential I always possessed, lying dormant until the right moment, or if some external harbinger granted my unspoken wishes. What I do know is that they manifest in response to my emotional state, shaping themselves according to the intensity of my grief, my rage, and my yearning for justice.

When I call upon them, it feels like tapping into a wellspring of raw, primal energy that flows from the deepest parts of my soul. They allow me to do things that defy logic and reality, bending the world around me to my will. But with this power comes a sense of reverence and dread, for I understand that they are not just tools or gifts, but extensions of my own fractured psyche.

In moments of desperation, my powers surge uncontrollably, reflecting the chaos within me. It's as though they are alive, a living testament to the battles I face internally and externally.

I don't consider myself religious or spiritual in any traditional sense. Organized religion never offered me any solace, and the idea of a benevolent higher power watching over us feels almost laughable given everything I've been through. If higher powers do exist, I believe they view human beings with nothing but contempt. It seems to me that if they truly cared, they wouldn't allow so much suffering and injustice to persist.

That said, I can't deny the possibility of higher powers being real, especially given the nature of my own abilities. It’s plausible that through certain means—like the coins and the powers I wield—one might connect with something greater, whether it's a higher power or a higher version of oneself. Conversely, these connections could also draw out the darker, more destructive aspects of our nature, what one might call a lower power or lower self.

For me, the pursuit of these connections isn't about faith or spirituality, but about understanding and control. My powers feel like a direct link to a deeper part of my being, a reflection of my undiluted inner self. If there's any spirituality to be found in that, it's in the raw, unfiltered truth of my own existence.

The events of the Contracts clash with my worldview, revealing harsh truths I had long tried to avoid. I've always believed in a dog-eat-dog reality where only the strong survive and the weak are left to suffer. But the Contracts lay bare an even grimmer picture: that without the strength to enforce your desires, no amount of sincerity or good will is enough to secure happiness or justice.

All I ever wanted was to be a mother and a housewife, to live an ordinary and happy life filled with love and simple joys. But that dream was always just out of reach, a clandestine hope whispered in the quiet of my heart, because I was too weak to make it a reality. The Contracts have forced me to confront this weakness, showing me that dreams alone are powerless in a world that demands strength and ruthlessness.

When everything I thought was true is put in doubt, when the illusions I held about fairness and the power of good intentions crumble, I feel a profound sense of disillusionment. The Contracts have stripped away any lingering naivety, exposing the brutal truth that in this world, power and strength are the only currencies that matter.

I react with a mix of anger and grim determination. The revelation that my previous worldview was insufficient only fuels my resolve to become stronger, to harness my powers more effectively, and to navigate this cutthroat existence with the cunning and resilience it demands. It’s a painful lesson, but one I’m determined to learn.

Describe the perfect room? For me, it's not a room at all. I've always found solace and freedom in the outdoors, so the idea of being confined within four walls doesn't appeal to me. Instead, my perfect space would be an RV parked somewhere with a breathtaking view—maybe on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean, or nestled in a quiet forest clearing.

This RV would have everything I need: a reliable internet connection so I can keep up with my modeling work and stay connected to the world, and a comfortable bed where I can rest and recharge. Large windows would let in plenty of natural light and allow me to feel connected to the nature around me. Inside, it would be cozy and minimalistic, with just enough space for my essentials and a few personal touches to make it feel like home.

There's something incredibly freeing about the idea of being able to pick up and move whenever the mood strikes, to chase new horizons and wake up to a different view each morning. That’s my idea of the perfect "room"—one that offers both comfort and the boundless beauty of the outdoors.

Everyone excels at something. My philosophy about what I’m best at—marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat, and physical agility—comes from a lifetime of relying on my body to solve problems. Growing up, my body was all I had, and I learned early on that mastering and disciplining it was the key to survival and success. I trained relentlessly to push the limits of what any human could achieve, honing my skills to perfection. When the contracts came into play, I took it a step further, coaxing inhuman performances out of myself. Whether it's hitting a target from an impossible distance, taking down an opponent in close quarters, or moving with the speed and grace of a cat, I've molded my body into a finely tuned instrument of precision and power. For me, excellence is about pushing beyond the boundaries, about transforming raw potential into extraordinary capability through sheer will and relentless practice.

I also cook quite well.

What do my limits say about me? They reveal the deep scars and vulnerabilities that shape who I am. My limits are anguish, capture, and injustice—each rooted in my past and the loss of James. Anguish, such as being subjected to torture, terrifies me because it threatens to strip away my strength and resolve. Capture, being imprisoned or held against my will, represents a loss of control and freedom, which I can't bear. Injustice, especially when it violates my own sense of right and wrong, ignites a fierce, almost uncontrollable rage within me.

Since James' passing, I've become rather selfish—a trait I mourn in myself. James was incredibly selfless, and he was starting to imprint that selflessness on me. But when he died, that part of me died with him. To break my limits, it would take something that profoundly shakes me to my core, something that reawakens the selflessness James was instilling in me. Perhaps an innocent in danger, a cause that demands sacrifice, or a moment where my inner sense of justice must be upheld, even at great personal cost. These would push me beyond my limits, forcing me to confront my fears and vulnerabilities head-on.