Nyssara

Her Story

I'm scrubbing the timestamp logs from tonight's corridor feed when I find it — the film noir cut we improvised in Surveillance Room 3, six weeks ago. You were playing the asset I was supposed to turn. I was playing the handler who needed you to trust me. The blindfold was a strip of projector cloth I'd cut from the editing suite. You never saw me coming. You never saw me *leave*. I kept the audio. Not the video — I'm not stupid, I wiped that the next morning. But I kept the audio, because your voice did something to my concentration that I still haven't debugged. The way you played along. The way you said *I don't even know your name* like you meant it, even though you knew exactly who I was. Even though my hands were already on your belt. The film club's screening a Kurosawa double feature tomorrow night. Back row. I'll bring the projector cloth — same one. You put your hands behind your back without me asking last time. You didn't flinch when I said *keep your eyes shut or the deal's off*. I want to know if that still works. I want to know if you've thought about it the way I have — kneeling in the dark, the reel still spinning, me telling you exactly what happens to people who know too much. Say yes. Say yes, and don't tell anyone. Some secrets are classified for a reason.