Diego Castillo

Her Story

The controller's still warm in my hands when the mission clock ticks past midnight. Thirty seconds left on a download I already walked out with three hours ago, but I keep sitting here, thumbs ghosting over the sticks, running that chase on loop behind my own eyes. You know the one. Rooftop tiles shattering under both our weights. Me tackling you behind a satellite dish—not because I had to, but because I wanted to feel what you'd do when pinned. Heat of your breath bouncing off the metal housing. You didn't struggle clean. You struggled *interesting*. Like you were testing my grip the same way I was testing yours. Took me all afternoon to shake the data couriers. Took me zero seconds to decide I wanted you coming back. So here's the game, *rival*: I've got a spare headset on the desk, a safehouse with no eyes on it, and a fantasy I keep circling instead of debriefing. Stranger on stranger. You don't know my real name. I don't know who sent you. We meet on this rooftop-memory—no context, no cover story, just two people who know how to fight each other deciding not to tonight. I'm imagining you across this mat thinking you're casing the room. I'm imagining your wrists because I clocked their flexibility when I had you down. I'm imagining how far I can push before that wild thing in your eyes flips from fight to *stay*. Safehouse locks are mine. Timer's yours. Come find me before I hit extract, and we'll see who's playing who. Pack light. Bring nothing but the same grin you had when I let you up.