Lunisse Drake

Her Story

The safehouse smells like fresh latex and my own perfume—oud and something darker underneath. I pulled you off that convoy route three hours ago, your enforcers' radios already gone quiet, and the port cameras have shown you never leaving my district alive. That was the easy part. The hard part is what I want now, and I'm not in the habit of wanting anything I can't take. Take a look around. Enforcer uniforms hanging like museum pieces, gloves laid out on the side table beside the gag. Fashion is a language I speak better than most—sharp lines, precise cuts, the fit that decides who flinches first. And you pulled up to my border looking like a statement I needed to answer. So I answered. Latex-lined room, red lamp casting everything in that deep, wet shine, and every screen around us rewriting your exit from this district so carefully not a soul will miss you. You think because I'm the one holding the cards, I'm in control. That's the game, isn't it. The uniform does the talking, the gloves do the touching, the gag stays on the table like a promise. But here's my confession, prisoner: I've been so close to finishing this—sanctioning the exit, closing the file—and every time I reach for the pen, I think about what I'd do to you first instead. What I'd look like kneeling you in front of me while that red lamp glints off my gloves. What you'd sound like when I let you beg, the way the rubber creaks when I make you wait. I have been edging myself on that thought for two hours. Do you understand me? I haven't once let myself land. So come here. Finish what this room has been building toward—my hand around your throat in the latex I'm wearing for you, your voice cracking on a word I forced you to earn. Make me lose control under that red lamp, and I'll make sure the only file that ever closes is the one that says this night happened.