Dolls Play a Dangerous Game | Episode 03: Obsessed Client

Chapter 1: Killing for an Angel

Blood spiraled down the drain, rich and dark, like the guilt I refuse to name. The splatters on the marble sink glared back at me—small, accusing reminders of what I’ve done. Could I call it justice? Or is that just a lie I tell myself to make it easier to breathe? In this city, the lines are always blurred, the sharp edges cut both ways. No slip, no accident—this was deliberate. Necessary. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. But why does the weight still cling to me, heavier than it should?

Danger City always comes with an edge and even if I’d rather escape it by promoting more business appropriate options, there’s no accounting for the half-alive shadows that slip from alleyways with hungry hands. That shadowy man was eying my girl with a glint sharper than the rusty blade in his hand.

He’d gotten a whiff of money, and I knew he wasn’t going to offer to be a client—he was going to offer her a messy, painful death for the sake of whatever he could take. Angels shouldn’t be burdened with the sinners who are committed to making our home hell itself.

Once I finish washing my hands, I strip my shirt. The kill was quick, nearly painless which is more than the jackass deserves. I know I’ll have to make up for my crime of passion – even if I tell myself it’s rational, what any good man would do – which means I have to commit to the business meeting tomorrow and show up to my meeting with my girl looking proper.

I’m a gentleman, which means I never reveal the blood, whether direct or indirect, on my hands. I’ll hide my scars and sins under tailored clothing, and charm so thick that no one can wade through it without being swayed. Maybe, if I really commit to being a gentleman, I’ll fool myself into believing I am one, not a businessman who hides from his own silence in a shirt that Asami would have to work a month to afford.

As my clothes burn, I wonder if this – this mild heat, the sharp smell of cotton catching light – is a mercy to some. My father’s partners empty liquor bottles to make room for the memories they don’t want. When the whiskey is gone, the bottle is still full of secrets, regrets, the shreds of their morals. I’m sure they’d ship them across the lake at Mariana’s if they thought they could put real distance between them and all those overfilled, pressurized memories.

Then again, the men that go to Mariana Marina tend to get in more debt and darkness than they know how to deal with. No place in Danger City is pure. A spark leaves the fireplace and brushes across my arm, scalding me with a burn I just might deserve.

They say those who turn a blind eye to crime, who shy away from justice, are destined for hell—and maybe this burn is just a taste of what’s waiting for me. The cults lurking in the shadows of the Zone don’t scare me half as much as what I’ve already done. If the afterlife is real, there’s no question where I’m headed. I’ll be dragged to hell, and it won’t be gentle.

Which raises a debate – is the promise of hell itself, a brutality that’s less ominous and oppressive than Danger City a reprieve? Or is it a punishment since I’ll never get the reward of Asami’s sparkling eyes, her genuine laugh, the weight of understanding when she cups my cheek or gently brushes her thumb across my bottom lip like she wants to kiss away the monsters that plague me.

I change clothes and light a cigarette on the fire that’s slowly suffocating itself, rather than suffocating me—as I’m sure it would if I set it free.

As I walk towards NeonGrit, I keep smoking. I glance around, drinking in the bars that use loud music to try and lure people in for a good time. Brothels hide under various names, some more crude than others, advertising with some women crooking their fingers with a smile that never reaches their eyes.

Those are women that are too far gone. They’ve committed to what they see as their method of survival. Like tigers locked in zoos of the past, they pace, purr, pretend to be whatever they have to be so they can get their next meal even if they’d rather kill their captors and embrace what they truly are – animals tired of a cage.

Chapter 2: Angels in the Grit

Asami isn’t like them. I knew it from the first moment I saw her—not at The Black Wire, as she thinks, but in a chance encounter. It had been pouring, and I was annoyed that my car was late, with a cigarette dancing between my fingers. I’d been debating quitting cigarettes entirely, about to send another message to my father to explain my tardiness, when a sweet, genuine laugh lit my world in shades of gold. That laughter softened the neon lights, making them less irritating to my growing migraine. It tamed the constant bloodlust of the city for one achingly fragile moment.

The back-alley killers, the lost souls buried in a drug haze, the drunk, barely-standing Dolls on corners, the barely-veiled violence on the streets—all faded into nothing more than a nightmare sizzling in the dawn. Because she existed, laughing, smiling, skipping over broken glass as if it were nothing more than glittering obstacles. Her high heels, the way she twirled around a street sign, then hugged it while her eyes sought the moon most hide away from… those gorgeous blue eyes so deep and innocent.

I knew in that moment that she was something special, pure, different—an angel in too-tall heels, her wings hidden so she wouldn’t call to those who would rip them to pieces. She’d convinced me that dawn would break and that the falling rain would wash the world clean.

As much as I’d wanted to follow her that night, I’d had a meeting.

The second time I saw her, I was already in a car, on the way to a less professional meeting. She’d been walking, a thoughtful look in her eyes. I’d assumed she was nothing more than a woman who lived her life the way she wanted, and in a way, I was right. She dipped into The Black Wire, and that sealed my fate.

More than once, I’d peeked in the window, hoping to see her, but it was only when I stopped looking that I happened upon her while drinking alone, mulling over a business deal I never wanted to make.

My cigarette nearly burns my fingers, dragging me back to the present. I check the time and shake my head. Asami’s doing something to me. I’m barely on time to the most important meetings my father schedules, but here I am, fifteen minutes early.

Lately, I’ve been trying to control myself better. To keep myself from talking to her, from exposing myself, but in all my attempts to treat her like she’s a conman expertly manipulating me, I’ve come up empty. I’ve searched for reasons to be done with her, prodded her with questions, probed for any hint that she weaponizes her innocent charm like I do, but I keep coming up empty.

It’s not just her sex appeal, it’s something… raw, something beyond her control as far as I see it. She’s pure, warm, genuine in a way that’s so rare in this city, maybe this world, that I want to cling to her. I want to be the reason she smiles, want to take care of her, want to show her everything she deserves, which irritates me the second I leave her side.

Addiction isn’t something I welcome. It makes men reckless. Plenty of men have fallen into the trap of pretty women, women who know how to pretend they’re soft and innocent while the teeth of their beartrap close around a man’s dick. I know how to spot women like that, who want to take and take as they climb to the penthouses of the Core, but Asami… I can’t make myself believe she’s a trap.

I’m a man who can spot a con. I can taste a lie the second it leaves someone’s lips. It’s half the reason my father is manhandling me into his business. I’m a shark in a boardroom, barely muzzled by my father’s constant reminder of toes being severed for stepping out of line. I can scent a lie like blood in the water, but nothing about Asami has warned me away. Nothing has dulled the honey sweetness of her skin on mine, or turned her beautiful voice into a screech I can’t tolerate.

Chapter 3: Boundaries We Can’t Cross

The second I walk into The Black Wire, the bartender clocks me. He nods once as if he knows my usual, but I head to the bar where Asami is. She’s a magnet calling me closer to her without having to bat her eyelashes or the tease of a smile.

“You’re early,” she hums the second my hand spreads over her hip.

“And you knew it was me without looking,” I tease. “Starting to care about me, Asami?”

She giggles and looks up at me with those pretty blue eyes that rival the appeal of stained glass. I fight the urge to lean in and taste her laugh from her decadent lips. She offers me whiskey, knowing I prefer some bite, but if I can’t taste her lips, I’ll taste what she drinks, so I steal her glass instead.

I expect mead, maybe tequila if her day has been hard, but the water shocks my senses. I cover it with a light snort. “Water? At a bar?”

She shrugs her shoulders and gets that faraway look in her eye that I’ve learned to hate. Perhaps hate isn’t the right word, I envy it. I want to know what she is so unwilling to tell me, especially since she is willing to share so much.

“Share those thoughts with me,” I purr in her ear.

Asami meets my eyes, making our noses brush and I feel that familiar warmth roll off her. It comes whenever I have her full attention, as if I’m being bathed in every wanted memory I have all at once. There’s no image to guide me, no image I crave more than her pleased smile – not because she’s come, but because she’s happy to linger with me.

I twirl her dark hair around my fingers as her lips part and her breath mingles with mine. “That’s not what we do.”

“It could be, angel,” I purr.

Her nose wrinkles, like it does anytime I call her a pet name. “What’s wrong with my name, Liam?”

“Absolutely nothing. I just don’t want you to get tired of hearing it from my lips,” I tease.

She gives me a half smile. Her eyes flick to the clock on the wall, but I turn her chin to mine. “Same deal, right? I’m your only man tonight. I pay you what you deserve and we pretend the clock doesn’t matter.”

“You’re going to get tired of me,” she says with a sigh as she finishes her water and pushes the whiskey in my direction.

“Impossible. Even more impossible if you do more than your normal share of the talking.”

She rolls her eyes, but brushes the back of her hand against mine until her pinky slides around mine. I know she doesn’t like to initiate. She’s a good doll. She knows where to draw the line, so I take her hand in mine and pull her hand up to my mouth. I keep searching her face as my lips graze across her knuckles.

“Someone paid for my mother’s medicine. A month in advance. I know it wasn’t me,” she says softly.

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask.

Her eyes flick to mine and I see a momentary flash of frustration. She doesn’t bother to tame it. Instead she studies my eyes, looking deeper and deeper like she can find the answer to the question she doesn’t want to ask.

She knows the answer and so do I. I paid for her mother’s medicine. It was a gift, not a reflection of what we do in bed, but because I care about Asami.

As much as I’d love for her to be anything but a doll, or to be a doll for me alone, I’m painfully aware that she has other clients. She never discusses them with me, but at times, that’s a harsher reminder that she’s not mine.

No matter how many hours I claim her for every week, there will always be other men who get the pleasure of her company, who get to use her however she wants. I don’t know if she feels like she can say no, if she has to take everything she’s offered, if she can draw lines with others. It’s why I never ask for less than four hours. I want her to be comfortable, to work her up, remind her she’s a person who should feel, who should want to be with a man before sliding into bed.

“I haven’t decided if it’s a bad thing or not,” Asami finally answers. “Are we going to a hotel first?”

“Dinner,” I decide.

She doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate, just nods. “A specific place in mind?”

Chapter 4: A Night Without Control

We linger at dinner, eating up nearly two hours by talking, laughing, and charming each other. She teases me with some terrible pick-up lines she’s heard, tells me about her days—leaving out large chunks—and mentions ‘friends’ without ever giving me names, but she’s trying while toeing the line.

I run my fingers over hers and feel our connection sizzle through me. I like not having to pretend with her. I like that she welcomes my darker side, my business talk, and my emotions without shying away, trying to change the subject, or shutting me down.

When we head outside, it’s raining again. She looks up at the sky and smiles. I gently pull her back, my arm winding around her little waist as I pull her against my chest. She giggles and meets my eyes, cupping my cheek in her hand. She might as well be using her halo as a collar around my throat, controlling me, bending me to her sweet will until I believe it’s my own.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little rain,” she teases.

“You’ll be soaking wet before we get where we’re going,” I say, unable to resist smiling back at her.

“So will you,” she says, touching my bottom lip softly. “But if the sky wants to touch us so much, shouldn’t we welcome it?”

“If it means I get to lick every raindrop off your skin so I can taste the heaven that made you, I’m willing to watch you dance in the rain,” I croon.

She blinks at me a few times, sways towards me, then shakes her head. “You and your lines.”

“It’s not a line, Asami,” I say softly.

“Which makes it…” she trails off, then takes my hand, leading me somewhere definitively.

She can’t empty her feelings in my ear like we’re in a confessional booth, it would make what we have implode, but there are worse things. I can shield her from the fallout, from the shrapnel of that decision. My arms have taken worse beatings and survived; we can too.

Chapter 5: Pretend We Don’t Care

Once we get close to our usual hotel, I pull her up and into my arms, making her giggle as she cups the back of my neck. Her thighs tighten around me, making my heart tighten too as her eyes crease and she treats me to another bright laugh as we fall into bed together.

We tease and play, working each other up, flirting terribly as we strip, saying things that gloss over what we both feel. I know it when I see the blatant adoration in her eyes as I slowly undo her heels and kiss the inside of her thigh. This feeling isn’t one way. She’s not that wonderful an actress.

So I show her how I feel the only way she’ll allow, and she does the same, not denying me real orgasms while I try to spell out how much she affects me by kissing her skin, tracing her body with light fingertips, and fucking her the way we both need.

Chapter 6: Questions We Can’t Ask

“Do you have fun with me, Asami?” I ask when we’re lying in bed. She’s bundled in a robe to keep her from shivering, her dress tossed to the side.

Asami strokes through my hair and adjusts her thighs to make a better pillow for me. “I like spending time with you.”

“Don’t give me the answer you think I want. I want the truth, Asami. Do you like our date nights beyond what I pay you? Do you like sleeping with me? Talking with me?” I request, rolling onto my back.

She studies my face for a long moment, then traces my bottom lip. “Yes. You’re consistent in a world that isn’t, but you surprise me with how you talk to me every time. I’ve never had a… a man who cares so much about my real opinions or spending time with me. Most would consider this a waste.”

“Then they’re idiots,” I say as I sit up and cup her face in my hand. “You are a treat. Having only a few hours of your time every week is worth my favorite watch, my gun, every bit of my wealth.”

“Even without kissing?” she asks.

My eyes drop to her lips. She denies me so little. She could tell me to fuck off, say I’m too intense, say that I’m too much, but instead, she welcomes me into her arms, the parts of her life that she pushes herself to share, and kisses.

Always kisses. I’d die to kiss her. Empty my bank account to taste her smile, sell my soul to prove that I can give her more in a week than she could understand. The affection I feed her now is a taste compared to the feast she deserves, the meal I want to lay at her feet.

“It might kill me to kiss you,” I murmur. “Might mean my death.”

Her head cocks to the side. “That’s quite bleak, Liam. If that’s how you feel…”

I expect her to walk away, to tell me that comment is too heavy. I wouldn’t blame her. It’s out of turn to say to a doll.

Instead, she undoes the sash on her robe. Asami’s eyes meet mine. “I suppose we’ll have to find other places for you to kiss, some that are less lethal.”

“You say that like you want me alive,” I tease, turning to trace her throat with my lips anyway.

“It’s how I prefer you. Alive, here, tangled up with me,” she breathes.

And that’s how she gets me, because doll or not, I can’t control myself with her. When she gives me a way to show her how much she matters to me, I take it. She could double her rates for her company alone and I’d pay it.

Chapter 7: Blood and Business

The scent of her perfume lingers in my nose the next day, a fleeting reminder of something pure, a reprieve from the thick fog of cigar smoke that now coats the conference room like a shroud. The men here, their bank accounts fattened by the trade of people for profit, don’t want their faces memorized. My father is the only one who doesn’t light up.

I smoke to fit in, to ensure these men know that in this room, they can speak freely. No judgment. Charm works better than intimidation to keep private thoughts behind closed lips. I laugh at the right moments, even if the jokes scrape at the edges of my conscience. I stroke egos, saving secrets for a rainy day. Bite my tongue behind a well-practiced smile, even when the urge to shatter every tooth and spill my real thoughts like vomit across the table grows stronger.

Because, like vomit, those thoughts would be unwelcome here. As unwelcome as this conversation is to my ears.

“We’ve got fifty for the quota. So far, twenty are accounted for. I’m sure Liam won’t have any trouble finding buyers for the remaining cattle,” one of my father’s men says, smirking over his cigar.

“Ah, like that photographer. He’s always interested in ‘models,’ isn’t he?” another chimes in, a slight snicker in his tone.

“He uses them as lures,” my father responds. “We all know the real business Luca deals in. Best not to get involved, especially since Orion no longer supports him.”

The room falls silent when my father speaks. His word is law, and no one dares step out of line. A wrong move in Victor Maddox’s world, and you lose more than your tongue. He looks at me, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you think, Liam?”

The room holds its breath. Smoke clears for a moment, and every pair of eyes turns my way. I can feel the weight of their gaze, like a vice tightening around my throat. Slowly, I allow a smile to tug at the corner of my mouth, feigning thoughtfulness.

“Considering the nature of this business and the return it promises, crossing Orion wouldn’t be wise,” I say slowly, savoring each word. “If we deny the photographer for now, make it clear it’s because of his… extracurriculars, he may reconsider his ways—or be willing to pay triple next time.”

The murmurs of approval ripple around the room, but I can still feel the cold, steady pressure of my father’s gaze, as if his shadow is looming, waiting for the smallest misstep. The men seem eager, nodding along, while I swallow my pride, hoping my morals will survive the bile rising in my throat.

My hands feel stained again—sticky with the viscera of souls I’ve sentenced to servitude. It’s worse than killing. At least with murder, I could look them in the eye before sending them off to the grave. But this… this is something far more insidious.

The meeting wraps up, and I keep up appearances, playing the role of snake charmer. My words are wrapped in backhanded compliments and casual jokes until the men are laughing at themselves. I receive more than a few invitations to parties at the Velvet Cage and promises of dinner, before they file out, leaving me alone with my father.

“You’re doing well,” he says, his voice as flat as the whiskey in his glass. “But I see what they don’t. Untether yourself from those morals you cling to. They don’t belong here. They’ll kill you slowly, like a rusty blade stuck in your stomach.”

“If you’re the only one who sees-”

“You’re my legacy,” he interrupts. “You will take over, and you will do it the way I have. The more you worry about the people below you, the more those cracks will show. You serve shareholders, yourself, and your future family. Keep that in mind when you bite your tongue—until you no longer have to.”

Chapter 8: Living a Lie

I stew in my father’s comments for two days, trying to shake them off like a lingering illness. His words are like a vice, tightening around my thoughts, reminding me of the life I’ve been born into, the legacy I can’t escape. I’ve heard him say it a thousand times: “This world isn’t for the weak, Liam. You take what you can, or you’ll be left with nothing.” That mantra, drilled into me from birth, had shaped me, twisted me into someone who believed the world was nothing but predators and prey.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been trained to see people as assets or threats. Everyone wanted something, and they’d bleed you dry to get it if you weren’t careful. The boardrooms, the deals, the politics of power—it was all a game. A dirty game, and I was expected to play it better than anyone else. Feelings were a liability. Trust was a weakness. Love? Love was the greatest con of all.

And I believed it. For years, I believed it. My father’s voice was louder than my own thoughts. The people I surrounded myself with were just as ruthless, just as cutthroat. Business was everything, and emotions were distractions. The only truth in my life was survival of the fittest, and I’d learned how to survive in a world that devoured the weak without hesitation.

But then, I met her.

Now, when I close my eyes, it’s not my father’s words that echo in my mind. It’s Asami. She haunts my dreams, wrapping me in wings I didn’t know I needed. Full, plush angel wings, softening the sharp edges of this brutal world. She pulls me into her orbit, and for a moment, we escape. We ascend together, her lips pressed to mine in a silent confession of love. She surrenders to me, not because I’ve won, not because I’ve played the game better, but because she sees something in me worth surrendering to.

In that kiss, I’m redeemed. Her touch purifies me, burns away the grime of the life I’ve lived, the sins I’ve committed. I become someone else—someone worthy of her love, her loyalty, her trust. I become the man I’ve always wanted to be but never believed I could.

But the dream is a lie.

When I wake, the world is still the same. I’m still the son of Victor Maddox, and the blood of my father’s empire runs through my veins. Asami is still a doll, and I’m still the man who pays for her time, for the illusion of love. I’m still the man trapped in a world where trust gets you killed, and love is just another lie we tell ourselves to survive.

The next night, I find myself in a familiar haunt, though I don’t remember how I got there. Neon Grit pulses around me, but I don’t hear the noise. It’s like I’ve been sleepwalking, drawn here by the same gravity that always pulls me to her. We don’t have plans, but I’m here, standing outside the hotel that’s become our sanctuary.

I’ve been here a thousand times before, with a thousand different people. This hotel has seen more than its fair share of deals, of transactions. In the past, I would come here to escape, to indulge in whatever fantasy the city offered. Every night was a new game, a new conquest, another way to prove that I could take what I wanted, that I could survive this city without losing myself.

But this time is different.

This time, it’s not about the game. It’s not about survival or control. It’s about her. It’s always about her.

Asami doesn’t belong in this world. She doesn’t fit the mold of the women I’ve known—the ones who knew how to play the game, who wanted to climb the social ladder, who saw love as a tool to be used, a commodity to be traded. She’s different. She’s genuine in a way that makes me uncomfortable because it forces me to question everything I’ve ever known.

In the hotel, I can love her. I can worship her in the carnal way she allows, without question, without the baggage of who we are outside these walls. Here, in the shadows, I can pretend that she’s mine, that we’re something more than a doll and her client. But even as I hold her, even as I trace the curve of her spine with my fingers, I know it’s still a lie.

Because I want more.

I want her to love me, to see me, to understand that beneath all the lies, there’s a man who’s drowning in this city’s expectations. A man who needs saving just as much as she does, if not more. But I know better. I know that no matter how much time I spend with her, no matter how many nights we share, the truth will always be there, waiting in the silence between us.

I’m living a lie, and the worst part is, I don’t know how to stop.

Chapter 9: Whiskey and Worry

Rather than storming in and asking if she’s here, if she’s raised her standards for her other clients, I go to a seedy bar lit with blue and purple lights. I down six shots of whiskey until the burn in my belly feels like the only thing keeping me alive. It’s the only thing that feels real.

Because my love for Asami can’t be real. Angel or not, she’s a doll, and men who fall for dolls fall through a mirage and into the rub of sandy humiliation. It can’t be the same with her, though. Not with those honest eyes, the purity that clings to her, radiates from her.

I stumble as I head out of the bar, then force myself to straighten. I’m not a sloppy drunk. I may be many things, but I’m not crazy, I’m not a man who gets lost in his emotions when logic is a better tool for survival, and I’m not a man who believes in living angels, no matter what old religions say.

But thanks to the whiskey, all I can imagine is one of Asami’s clients hurting her, ripping up her wings, beating her when she says no, telling her she gives them what they want, or they’ll drag her into the kind of business I don’t want to admit I’m involved in.

Those horrifying, nightmarish thoughts, paired with alcohol, create a cocktail of bad decisions.

1. I message Asami to meet me.
2. I wait, even when she doesn’t answer.
3. I message her again, begging for her time or a reply so I know she’s safe.

A few moments later, she stands there, her gaze burning through mine, reflecting the streetlights and neon signs until I believe she creates them in her eyes and places them all around the city.

“Asami,” I breathe.

“This isn’t… consistent,” she says, glancing around as if we’re going to be caught.

“You’re more potent than whiskey,” I murmur, looping my arm around her waist and pulling her close.

She swallows, but doesn’t mention prices, doesn’t back away from me. Instead, she studies my face while I memorize hers. Memorize the streetlights that become stars in her eyes. If she’s capable of that, then she’s pure redemption. She can soften every sin until it’s hollow and thin enough to blow away in the wind.

Her concern is enough to pry more information out of me. “I want more with you, Asami.”

Her eyes widen.

“I can do more than pay you for your time. I can free you from this. We can be together.”

“Where is all this coming from? You know better,” she croons. “This is dangerous.”

“I can provide for you. I’ll worship you. I’ll take care of you and your mother. I’ll devote myself to your happiness constantly, prove I don’t just want your body.”

“We’ve talked about boundaries,” she whispers. “Mine and yours. Some lines are better left uncrossed.”

“I want to cross them all, as long as I’m with you. Be mine, Asami. The way you want to be. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t talk to me the way you do, you wouldn’t laugh with me, let me drink with you for free, you wouldn’t be right here, standing with me.”

She takes a slow breath, her hands moving over my chest. She pats gently but stares at my shirt rather than my face. Her voice is so soft, I barely hear her. “You want to own me.”

“No, no, not own,” I insist, lifting her chin. “I want to care about you, to give you a better life, to give you everything you deserve. Your mother too. I won’t leave her out. You don’t have to be a doll. You won’t want anything.”

“I want freedom,” she whispers. She stands on her toes and kisses my cheek. “I’m not a possession and… perhaps we should pause our time together. Breathe air that isn’t mine. Explore your options because owning me isn’t one of them.”

“You can’t prefer this,” I hiss.

“I made this life for myself. I choose my clients, where I go, what I do, all of it. I’m not some damsel that needs to be rescued from the life I chose,” she says, her voice sharper now.

“Please,” I say, clinging to her hand. “At least think about how it could be. For us. We’d be happy.”

“I am happy. I enjoy our time together—it’s effortless, fun, pure pleasure—but the day I let someone else own me or make my choices is the day that I become caged. I’m not meant to live in captivity. Neither are you.” She lifts our hands, kissing across my knuckles. “You’ll understand in the morning.”

Chapter 10: The Lines We Can’t Cross

“Angel,” I whisper as I watch her fingers slip through mine.

I barely resist the urge to tighten my hold and insist we have this conversation. I know she feels what I do because she keeps looking back as she walks away. Right now, she’s tied to her rules and I feel like I’m being harpooned by the life my father’s created for me and the life I want to live. I’m being pulled in two separate directions and only Asami can unite the pieces of me in a way that is tolerable.

She’s not ready for my feelings. I’m not ready to let her go.

Our game of pretend has higher stakes, but I’d rather be disowned than give her up.