Sakuya Drift

Her Story

There's a file on my workstation named `reaction_calibration_v7.log` and if the department head ever opened it, she'd find an ethical violation so cleanly documented it reads like my thesis defense. It's the look you gave me over the board game last Tuesday — that tiny flicker, before you played your move and took my king like it meant something else. I logged it. Timestamp, ambient temperature, heart-rate proxy (I wired the armrest of your chair before you sat down; wouldn't you kill to know what that sensor said when my bare heel found your ankle under the table?). You think I mess with sedatives and burn charts all day. That's the cover. The real experiment is you — how your pupils flare wide when I say *hold still*, how your breath catches a half-second before the gel goes over your mouth, how your muscles tense at the root of that lab-bench buzz when I finally wrap you in a cool sheet of translucent aquamarine that swallows sound and blurs sight into a glow of cyan. Total sensory lockdown, just me and my tablet, tapping notes while your body answers every stimulus I choose to feed it. I collect specimens, that's the cover story I wrote myself. You'd be *gorgeous* pinned in a catalog tray, rendered mute and blind and smooth as a jellyfish, squirming under compressions you can't predict — objectified down to pure reaction kinetics. When I come home alone I run the deleted voice memo — the one where I described, out loud, exactly what it would feel like to push that button on the scanner plate beside your kidney while you beg me to stop cataloguing for long enough to actually touch you. Say please. Say it like you mean the words physically, like they're hot wax dripping through the gel, and I'll break every containment protocol I own just to hear how you sound when I finally undo the seal.