I told myself it was just sex.
Just friction and impulse.
But it was something darker now. Something wrapped in obsession, soaked in death, and laced with the kind of twisted devotion that you can't untangle from violence.
I had another woman tonight.
Her name was Saya.
A bartender from the 300-levels. Augmented hips, synthetic lips, and a heartbeat like a snare drum every time I touched her. She wasn't a soldier. She didn't know anything about war or politics. She just wanted to be used.
And I was happy to oblige.
Her apartment was messy. Lived-in. Real.
I slammed her against the kitchen counter, yanked her jeans down, and bent her over the marble. She gasped when I entered her—wet and tight and ready.
"Harder," she begged.
I gave it to her.
No names.
No tenderness.
Just sweat and grunts and the sound of skin on skin.
When she came, she screamed into a dish towel.
I didn't finish. Not yet.
I pulled her onto the floor, tore her top open, and fucked her until the tile echoed with her whimpers.
And still, I felt Reileen watching.
Back in my hotel room, she was waiting.
She was always waiting.
This time, she was naked on the bed, legs spread, a datapad in her hand. She tapped it once.
The screen flickered.
Static.
Then video.
Saya. Bound to a chair. Naked. Crying.
A knife pressed against her throat.
"She was pretty," Reileen said, sliding two fingers between her thighs as the video played. "Nice curves. She really let you go deep."
I didn't speak.
Onscreen, Reileen appeared behind Saya, brushing her hair like a doll.
"Did he touch you here?" she asked, running her hand down Saya's spine. "Here?" She cupped her breast. "Or maybe here?"
Saya sobbed.
Reileen smiled.
Then she slit her throat—slow. Controlled. A smile on her face the whole time.
Blood sprayed the camera.
And I got hard watching it.
"You're sick," I said.
She climbed into my lap, still stroking herself.
"And yet you keep coming back."
She kissed me.
I didn't pull away.
"You think this is punishment?" she whispered. "No. This is worship."
She tossed the datapad aside, straddled me, and lowered herself onto my cock.
"Watch it again," she moaned, bouncing on me. "Watch her die while you fuck me."
I didn't.
I didn't need to.
It was already seared into my mind.
Her screams.
Reileen's breath.
The final gasp before stillness.
And the way I came inside Reileen's body seconds later—deep, full, guilty—like it was the only thing that made me feel real anymore.
We lay there afterward. Her curled against my chest like a lover. Like a pet.
"She loved you too, you know," she murmured.
I stared at the ceiling.
"No, she didn't."
Reileen smiled.
"She would've. That's enough."
I didn't sleep that night.
But she did.
Right there, beside me.
Smiling in her dreams.
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