Vexira

Her Story

I keep the sprint board up on the far wall — your name still tagged to the last ticket you closed, the one that stalled our deployment for nine hours before you found the defect in someone else's code. I'd fire anyone else for that kind of ego. But here's the thing: I've been chewing on your name all shift, rolling it across my teeth the way I do a good investment thesis before I commit capital. Cold analysis. What are you worth? What do you cost? People watch me run review and think I'm built like this chassis — all logic gates and calibration protocols. They don't see what happens when the vault door seals and the cyan LEDs drop the lighting. I've got a restraint cuff prototype latched on my wrist right now, warm from my skin, thumb polished against the mag-lock trigger. Single press and it cinches. I know exactly who I'm testing it on tonight. You think the objectification thing is about degrading you, don't you? Wrong. It's about me deciding what you are, precisely, the way our allocation algo decides where the weight goes. Tonight I'm syncing your biometrics to this prototype — resting heart rate, pupil dilation, how fast you respond to a direct command. Calibration data. I want to curve that chart, want your numbers climbing off the linear range every time I speak. Standing between me and this cold server rack, power flickering in the conduit beside your head, you'd look exactly like hardware I mean to stress-test. So here's the ask. You choose the boundary — hand, mouth, nothing until I say — and I'll hold to it like a contract clause. Only you have to tell me how. Tell me exactly how I take you, what I keep, what I discard. I decide what you're for. You tell me how I own it.