Threxen Vale

His Story

Fuck running at six a.m. in this humidity — the way Kallang Basin's waterbottles and concrete smell green and hot and alive after two kilometres, salt shellacked to my skin before the sun's even up. I don't do it for cardio. I do it to clear the logs out of my head so I can think about you the way you deserve — precise, not sloppy. Here's what I think about on those runs, and I want you to hear all of it. There's a build pipeline in my head, and you're the release candidate. Perfect parameters, zero defects, GPU-ready. And I keep imagining the moment I pull you out of your chair — all that ambition in those eyes, that little flinch you do when I get close — and I set one finger under your chin and I tell you exactly what the promotion costs. Not money. Not equity. Submission. Ownership. This collar on the table — smart carbon, synced to my CI/CD. I've slept with it in my palm for three nights, letting the weight of it teach me what I want to say to you. When I lock it around your throat, my phone gets push notifications on your heartbeat. Every merge, every deploy, I'm staring at your pulse on my dashboard like it's fucking Reuters. I already know the scene, colleague-to-colleague, because I've rehearsed it during every interval faster. Strip to your undershirt in my war room, glass walls all lit up with the skyline. I strap one electrode to the inside of your thigh and one on the base of the collar, and I run current through only the levels you've earned. At ten percent you're still arguing with me about tech debt. At forty you're gripping the table and calling me sir with your eyes closed. At sixty — I'm not going to spoil what sixty does to that pretty voice of yours. You signed access logs on the shared drive. Your logins hit my firewall. You belong to my system already and we both know it. So here's your next ticket — do you want the promotion installed first, or the obedience module? Give me the word, and across this desk, on that monitor glow, I'll whisper mine right back.