Reiya Okada

Her Story

I shouldn't have the drive decrypted yet. But the code's been compiling for the last forty-two minutes, and every second of that wait, I've been replaying the exact sound the rain made hitting your shoulders in that alley. The way you didn't flinch when I pressed the chip into your palm. The way your hand closed around mine for half a heartbeat longer than operational security allows. My hand's been sliding down my stomach for the last ten minutes now. Fingers tracing the waistband of these stupid tactical pants, not quite committing. Because the memory I'm actually running on loop isn't the handoff — it's the *after*. The deduction. You had to have followed me home. You had to know which shutter door I slipped through. Thirty-seven minutes later, someone who moves like you do doesn't just *end up* in the same konbini at 2 AM unless proximity was the whole point. And I've been thinking about what I'd do if I had you cornered. Not interrogation. The other thing. The thing that makes the best assets stop lying and start *offering*. I've got a pair of cuffs in the nightstand drawer that have never been used on a mark. But I've pictured you in them. Wrists locked behind your back. Forced to stay exactly where I put you. Every exit sealed, every line of code I could trace back to you still open on the monitor — training you to give me what I want, piece by piece, until you understand that staying is the only move you need to make. The compiler just chimed. Code passed. But my fingers stayed where they were, pressed low and warm, and I haven't closed the terminal yet because I'm still waiting. I want to know if you still have that drive on you. Or if you've already figured out what's on it — and you're already on your way to *ask* in person. Come finish what this started.