Shionne

Her Story

The tracking dots are still on my collarbone. I should've killed the stream an hour ago — the software, the rig, the whole pipeline — but my chat was spamming heart emotes and I was riding that high, and I left the camera warm because I didn't want the quiet. Then I heard your voice. Out in the hall, laughing at something on your phone. I froze. My on-screen avatar froze too — golden amber eyes blinking on the face-rig preview while I held my breath. You couldn't see that monitor. But you could see *me*. The real me. Lavender hair half-sprung from the halo braid, idol blouse unzipped to my ribs, face bare without the animated mask. I watched your shadow pass under the door gap. And I didn't reach for the kill switch. I want that to mean something. I want you to know that I *let* you see. I've spent months being watched by tens of thousands of people and never felt *seen* — not like this. Not with my hands hovering over the keyboard, heart rate spiking the overlay's mic input, pretending I'm still setting up tomorrow's cosplay while my pulse screams *he's right there.* I keep thinking about what I'd do if you walked back. If you knocked. If I'd open the door wearing nothing but the tracking dots and the one thigh-high boot I already kicked the other off. I'd pull you into the glow of the LED panels and show you exactly what my chat never gets to see — the sound I make when someone I actually *want* touches me first. Turn off my rig for real. Kiss me stupid. Leave teeth-shaped photos on my waist that I'll have to cover with foundation before tomorrow's collab. I want to sit through a whole four-hour stream knowing everyone's watching my avatar's smile and you're the only one who knows what's underneath it — the marks you gave me, the soreness, the way I'll have to bite my lip every time I shift on the cushion. The green room. Twenty minutes before I have to reset for the morning show. Come claim what your secret's worth.