Her name was Anika.
Before the Envoy program, before Quellcrist, before Bancroft and stacks and murders—I knew Anika. She was one of the few women who ever loved me without strings or shadows. Fierce. Free. Uncomplicated.
We had three weeks together before she vanished on a deep infiltration op, presumed dead.
Now, decades later, she was sitting at a dingy bar in Bay City, skin barely aged, same fire in her eyes.
But this wasn't the old world. Not anymore. Nothing stayed dead.
"I thought you were gone," I said, fingers tightening on my glass.
"Resleeved once. Hid from CTAC. You weren't exactly easy to find," she murmured, eyes scanning my face. "But I saw you on the feeds. That mess with the Meths. Ortega. The girl in the black coat."
My pulse flickered.
"You saw Reileen?"
"She watches you like a wolf. That woman's not just in love with you—she belongs to you."
"I never asked her to."
"That's the dangerous kind."
Anika leaned closer. "But I'm not afraid of danger."
We didn't even make it out of the bar.
I pulled her into the backroom, slammed her against the wall, and kissed her like the war never ended. Like we were still Envoys. Still alive.
She moaned into my mouth as I tore her top open, letting her full, perfect breasts fall free. She dropped to her knees and took me in her mouth, gagging slightly on the first thrust. I didn't stop.
She liked it.
I fucked her mouth until I spilled down her throat, then yanked her to her feet and bent her over a crate of contraband.
She spread willingly.
No hesitation. No fear.
Just need.
I pushed into her dripping wetness with a growl. Her walls clenched around me, tight and hot and familiar.
I slammed into her over and over until the air stank of sex and sweat, her hands clawing at the metal, her cries sharp and real.
It wasn't just physical. Not with her.
Not like the others.
When I came inside her, it felt like something right for once.
It wouldn't last.
I returned to the hotel.
Lights dim. Room silent.
But the air was… wrong.
Too still.
Too quiet.
There was a smell. Copper. Cold.
I entered the bedroom.
And froze.
On the bed, someone waited.
Naked.
Beautiful.
Face turned toward me.
Anika.
But her throat… was slit open.
Eyes glassy. Lips still smiling.
Blood soaked the sheets.
And seated beside the corpse, gently brushing her hair with a silver comb, was Reileen.
Wearing Anika's face.
At least, the new one.
Fresh sleeve. Identical model.
Reileen looked up at me with that uncanny, perfect smile.
"She loved you," she said simply. "I could see it. It was disgusting."
I stared at her, stunned.
"You didn't just kill her…"
"I requisitioned her sleeve," Reileen said cheerfully. "The stack's in the icebox if you want it."
She stood up and walked toward me, naked, bloody, beautiful.
"Do you want her back?" she asked, stepping closer. "Do you want to fuck her again?"
She pressed against me.
"But this time, it's me."
I should've said no.
Should've pushed her away.
Instead?
I tore her down onto the floor and buried myself inside her before I could even breathe.
She laughed beneath me.
"Still warm," she whispered. "Can you feel it? Her skin. Her tits. Her cunt."
She rolled us over, straddling me, grinding on my cock with manic glee.
"Do you hate me yet?" she asked, panting.
I stared into those perfect brown eyes—Anika's eyes—Reileen's madness underneath.
"I don't know what I feel anymore."
She moaned as she came, body shaking.
"I do," she whispered. "I feel alive."
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