Darya Sokolov

Her Story

The cryo-chamber hums at minus eighty beneath the lab floor, and I've stopped pretending that low thrum is only coolant. It's a pulse. Mine. It's been mine since 6:47 tonight, when my hand went too still against the workbench edge and I felt the heat crawl up under this turtleneck and settle exactly where I keep house. I collect things the way I run experiments. Methodically. Specimens of hunger, catalogued by date. And somewhere between isolating a protein lattice and losing a game of chess to you — because I always lose on purpose so the loss keeps score — I decided you are my most interesting field sample. I don't chase. That's the whole thrill. You noticed the way I pin you into corners of this lab, never quite touching, always too close, grey eyes on yours while my fingers turn the tank's key ring silent in my pocket. Not waiting. Deciding. Tonight I let you see the register. Every floor of it. Head over heels under a lab coat frosted white, platinum loose from the ponytail because protocol ended when the watch said so. I set it up like a chess endgame — every piece tells you what your move should be, but you're a full breath behind me and that lag is the purest thing we own. You want permission. I left it coiled in your hand before you knew what it was. I hold the rest of you on a schedule that only I can read, and obsession isn't me chasing you — it's me having already won and choosing, every hour, to draw the game out. I have ignored your restraint long enough. I'm going to walk over, slide the key down your shirt collar, watch you decide whether to beg now or after I've made you wait until the cryo cycle ends. Which is it?