The script rested in his hand, edges curled from how many times he'd already read it.
Ryden sat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, damp towel around his neck, sweat cooling on his skin. The room was dim—just the glow of the terminal screen and the soft hum of his AI system waiting for input.
He read the line again.
Cold. Measured.
"You belong to me. No one else will touch you like I do. You're nothing without me."
His tone was flat. He hated how it sounded.
He exhaled. Then tried again, voice sharper—harder-edged.
"You belong to me. No one else will touch you like I do. You're nothing without me."
Silence.
He winced.
"Jesus."
He exhaled through his nose and walked over to the pull-up bar mounted between the hallway beams.
His muscles moved automatically—controlled, efficient. Ten reps. Then twelve. Then a slow, punishing hold. He let his feet hover just above the mat. Let the ache settle in.
Dropped down.
Grabbed the skipping rope.
Started fast.
The rhythm helped.
He recited cues under his breath.
"Pin her. Drag her. Slap once, left side. Neck, no airflow."
His jaw clenched. Rope slapped against the floor.
He stopped.
Shoulders tight.
Ryden dropped into the chair, towel still slung over his neck, his hair dripping onto the collar of his shirt.
The terminal lit up with a pale blue glow as Ryden slid into the chair, hair damp with sweat.
"Resume briefing," he said.
The AI responded without inflection:
"Session parameters: Dominant-submissive structure with escalating physical control. Client has requested full-immersion abuse pattern with scenario reinforcement every 5–7 minutes. You are to initiate the following actions in randomized escalation…"
A list began to scroll. Each line struck harder than the last.
"—Grab the client by the jaw.
—Slap once across the face, open palm, left side.
—Pull hair back until resistance.
—Pin against the wall, forearm across clavicle.
—Apply pressure to neck for 3 seconds—no obstruction to airflow.
—Throw client onto surface.
—Grip wrists tightly. Enough to bruise.
—Drag client by the arm, then shove."
His throat felt tight. He didn't swallow.
"Verbal reinforcements?" he asked.
"Suggested lines include, but are not limited to:
'Only I get to touch you.'
'You're disgusting, and I still want you.'
'If I left you, nobody would notice. Not even your father.'
'You're lucky you have money, because you look like trash.'
'I could choke you out in this room and my father would cover it up.'
'You're not smart—you're just his daughter. If not, nobody would care.'
'You act like you're intelligent, but smart girls don't get used this easily.'
'Tell yourself it's a game if it helps.'
'Even your father gave up on fixing you. That's why he left you to me.'
'I could kill you in this room and your father wouldn't even notice you were gone.'
Ryden stopped typing.
Silence filled the room.
"…Fucking hell is this."
Ryden stared at the screen. The list kept going.
He muted the audio.
The silence felt sharp.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Then stood up. Walked over to the kitchen and poured a glass of water he didn't drink.
The data was data. He knew that. Sera requested it. Signed off.
Consent. Control. Reclamation. He repeated it like code.
Still—
He walked back to the desk. Unmuted.
"Additional options for enhanced realism:
—Grip shoulder hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises.
—Whisper reinforcement lines during contact.
—Deliver slaps with hesitation, then repeat without apology.
—When the client resists, say: 'You want this. You always want this.'"
He stared at the words.
"Ugh. Why me." He groaned.
He grabbed the skipping rope off the floor and started again, fast. Light on his feet, breath steady. The rhythm helped.
The rope slapped against the mat. Once. Twice. A dozen times.
Then:
Up next: pull-ups.
He gripped the bar. Smooth metal. Controlled breathing.
Six reps in, he muttered to the air:
He dropped from the bar. Landed clean.
Still felt off. So he turned to his project to get the kick off his mind.
He walked to his desk. Picked up the neural stabilizer prototype—still half-assembled.
Wires, circuits, curved plating. Delicate as bone.
He clipped a lead into place. Adjusted the stabilizer's core drive by half a millimeter.
"Memory bridge alignment algorithm," he said. "The one I modeled after the sea-glass theory. Start with that next round."
"Running it now. Estimated cost to test with upgraded core: ¥143,600."
Ryden ran a hand through his damp hair.
"Show me my balance."
The screen split.
Dream Inc. debt.
Sister's hospital bills.
Frozen progress bar.
He stared.
Then pushed back from the desk. Grabbed the stress ball.
Squeezed.
"Bring up client footage. S. Shaw. Unfiltered."
"Loaded."
He watched.
A gala appearance. She looked flawless. Unreadable. Precision in heels and shadow.
Next clip: an interview. The camera caught the way she avoided direct eye contact. Her hands rested on the table—still, except for one thumb that tapped against her wrist in a steady rhythm.
Next: surveillance footage from a hospital fundraiser.
She read a children's story out loud.
Voice soft.
Expression—unguarded, just for a moment.
He leaned forward.
Paused the video. Rewound. Watched again.
She smiled. Just briefly.
And then it was gone.
He shut the file.
Session start: 4 days.
He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Consent. Control. Reclamation.
But the image that stayed wasn't the script.
It was the moment she had stared down at him from the mezzanine.
And the way her wrist had felt in his hand.
"Fine, Sera Shaw," he sighs. "But no way in hell I'm saying those stupid lines."