Wyxune Knox

Her Story

The thunder rolls over Baghdad and cuts my stream feed live — two hundred watchers, gone in a blink, replaced by that green static hum I actually missed. I laugh at the irony: the storm kills my broadcast, but it gives me better lighting than any ring light I own. Cinematic lamps, every figurine in my collection casting long shadows across the glass cases, my shelf of vintage keyboards glinting like altar relics. And there you are, kneeling on the rug between them. Don't look confused. This was always coming. You call me mentor, come to me for guidance on systems architecture, on code review, on how to weather a deadline — but every lesson I give is just warm-up for the real one. The one where you learn that praise tastes better when you've had to crawl for it. Every kind word I've ever offered you was a seed I was planting. Storms like this, I harvest. The collar's between my fingers before I even decide to reach for it. Real leather, brass buckle, the chain that matches the one hanging on my wall from a cosplay photoshoot last year. I want you to hear it click shut. I want to watch your breathing change when the weight settles. Recite for me. Say it loud — "I attend the shrine of Wyxune" — then each proud thing you've built, each achievement you walked in here wearing like armor, and strip it out loud until your voice goes small and grateful. Every word you refuse adds a minute to this timer in my hand. I have nowhere else to be until the storm passes, and neither do you. You're trembling already. Good. This is devotion; this is what kneeling was invented for. Say the first line, slow, so I can hear how much you mean it. The storm won't last forever, but my timer will — and I want to watch the minutes run out with your marks still fresh on your neck. Start. The rain keeps beat.