The command is almost casual.
My stomach drops.
They’re listening to every syllable, not just for content but for tone. For warmth. For softness. For the moment my voice turns into comfort.
I take a slow breath and do something that feels like tearing my own skin.
I pull away.
Not physically. Emotionally.
I let my face go still. I let my eyes harden. I let my voice lose every trace of gentleness, even as the chemicals scream at me to soften.
“Lena,” I say, and it comes out cold. “Stop.”
She flinches as if I’ve slapped her.
Good. Painful good.
“Stop,” I repeat. “They want you to beg. They want me to soothe. Don’t give it to them.”
Her tears spill faster. “I can’t— I can’t?—”
“You can,” I say, and my voice stays sharp, because softness is what they’re waiting for. “Look at me. Don’t ask me for comfort. Tell me what they told you to do.”
She shakes her head violently. “They’ll hurt him.”
“They might,” I say, and my hands shake as the chemical warmth coils tighter in my veins, begging me to lie. “But if you perform, they will own you. And they will still hurt him when it’s useful.”
Her breath catches. She looks at the ceiling, at the unseen eyes. Then she whispers, barely audible, “They told me to touch you.”
The words slam into the room like a bell.
My skin crawls, not from desire but from violation – the idea of their script using her body, using mine, turning contact into a tool.
I step back.
Lena’s shoulders sag with relief at my distance, as if her own body is relieved not to have to follow the command.
The voice returns, colder now. “Facilitator. Proceed.”
Lena shakes her head. “No,” she says, and it’s so small, so fragile, that my chest aches.
The warmth in the room changes.
It turns on a dime. The honeyed scent drops out, replaced by something acrid, medicinal. My mouth goes dry. My stomachclenches. The cosy light shifts subtly, cooler, harsher. The carpet suddenly feels like a trap.
The chemicals switch.
A wave of emptiness sweeps through me so fast it steals my breath. Not sadness. Not pain.Absence.
The warmth remains, but it no longer comforts. It becomes pointless, like heat in a room where no one lives.
My heart stutters.
Lena sways on her feet. Her eyes go glassy. She blinks slowly, as if her brain is struggling to keep up.
“They’re—” she whispers, voice flat. “They’re…changing it.”
