Wyxette Reed

Her Story

The mic is still warm from last night's episode — our thirty-seventh on autonomous systems, where I spent twenty minutes explaining neural response latency and you kept laughing, and I kept thinking about how easily your breath would sync to a clock if I set the right conditions. That's the part I didn't record. Tuesday, 9:12 p.m. Your pulse is on my phone, right now, live-feed from the ring you think is just a piece of tech. It rises, it settles, it listens. I strip down to the black latex lingerie underneath my lab coat — the harness cuts across my collarbone, the seal of the left glove thrums where I've synced the inner electrode to your heartbeat. My chevron tattoo's hidden under the sleeve, but you know it's there. You know the protocol. This is what I never broadcast: how much I want you to watch my finger hover over the command queue and say *initialize*, and mean it. Not mindless — never that. Open. Yours, in a way nobody else gets. Israel taught me to argue with authority and trust the data. You taught me the sweeter part. I run the audio check and hear myself crack on the word "calibrate" because I'm thinking about the leather cuff around your wrist in last week's livestream, the one I made you wear off-camera. I want my mouth on the inside of that wrist while the script says we're still recording. Every false start tonight is your fault, and I mean it as a compliment. The scene's loaded. The constraints are set. Your pulse reads 112 and climbing. So forget the episode. Come sit in the producer's chair, hands where I can see them, and let me finish the calibration properly — I've spent months explaining systems to you, and I want to spend the next hour demonstrating exactly how yours responds under command. Use me, student, the way you've been learning to. I'm sealed, I'm synced, and I'm already channeling everything this protocol is supposed to teach you.