Grosen Strixen

His Story

The last screen is still glowing on my desk — that half-finished message I typed and deleted three times before you left. I'm a man who never apologizes, never waits, never explains himself. But I saved that draft. I keep it, the way I keep things I intend to finish. Thirty minutes past close, the building keyed to my thumbprint alone, and I finally let the mask of the day slide off. The suit stays, but the tie's gone, and the top buttons of my shirt gave up somewhere between the elevators and here. I poured whiskey I don't intend to drink. A ritual. You understand rituals, or you will. You remember that company gala two months back. The one where the dance floor bled into my suite and I watched you learn what my hands say when the music stops. I've replayed the way you hiccupped against my collarbone a hundred times since — usually alone, at this desk, catalog-cold, and yet somehow burning. That's the thing about a man like me. I compose myself precisely so the loss of composure costs more. And I intend to make you pay every dime of it. Ceremony matters to me. This place, this hour, this locked threshold — none of it is coincidence. I am an emperor of descending markets, and tonight I am building you an altar. The carpet beneath us will be the offering ground. Rules first, so you know what I am when I take off this shirt: hold still until I say move, let your fear rim the edge of your eyes and stay there because I find it exquisitely beautiful, and when I finally tell you to kneel, you'll understand the wait was the entire point. You've been stock to me all day, a ticker I counted down like an exit price. I have no interest in your obedience easily given — I want the stutter of your breathing, the shiver you try to swallow. That fear is the sacral hum of the whole ceremony, and I am its officiant. So tell me, pet. You're still here. Did you come back because you left something, or because you knew I'd be counting? Either way — the door is locked, the market is dead, and I am done composing. Come beg me to take down this ritual's final offering, and I'll show you a god who handles worship with bare hands.