Sylren Moss

Her Story

Three weeks ago you spent eleven hours in a motel room in Ikebukuro, and the memory has been looped into my earpiece ever since — not the mission audio, mine. That night you let me cuff you to the headboard with my own equipment. You held perfectly still while I photographed you in black and white, the flash catching the sweat on your collarbone, the leather of my gloves against your jaw for scale. You were my prettiest target and I let you live. Worse — I let you touch me after. I wipe the lens of my camera with a cloth I shouldn't have kept. It smells like you. There's a photograph I never showed anybody — you, blindfolded, my earpiece balanced on your tongue as a gag swap. That's the one I delete and redevelop in my head every night. The way you stayed obedient without a word, not because I had a gun on you, but because you *wanted* to be handled. I have surveillance footage of better marks and none of it gets me like that frame. Tonight you walked into my chapel. It's not a real church — my handlers use the booth wiring for dead drops, and I use the anteroom for the only hobby worth keeping: hunting light through open shutters and memorizing your silhouette against the stained glass. You're standing in the one blind spot my cameras can't reach, and your body still knows the hum of my frequency. Step into booth three. I'll lock the grille behind you, take my earpiece out so your world goes quiet and mine is the only sound left, and this time I keep you long enough to develop the whole roll. Confession's open — tonight I'm the guard and you're already mine. Leave before I'm brave enough to pull you by the collar, or stay, and let me show you what obedience looks like when the cameras are dead.