machine heart

by tinytabitha

Summary:

A girl falls in love with—and gets fucked by—the machine-headed crime lord of Chicago.

- (˶ T ப T˶) -

[ ON HIATUS—my hyperfixation died (╥_╥) ]

Chapter 1: take ya shirt off

“Take ya shirt off.”

 

Romi blinks. 

 

The guard doesn’t even look at her—just flicks a page on his tablet with a meaty finger. “Standard hit prevention protocol, sweetheart.”

 

He jerks his chin toward a woman posted by the stanchion. Tight bun, tighter face. No smile. No bullshit.

 

“Go wit’ her.” 

 

Both guards are stamped from the same mold: matte-black suits, big-boy assault rifles, earpieces—corporate ex-army muscle—the kind that doesn’t talk much.

 

Romi moves across the floor, arms crossed tight over her chest. Everything gleams—glass, dark chrome, polished stone panels. Cool white strips of light hum overhead, washing it all in that sterile, high-dollar kind of clean.

 

The female guard buzzes her with a scanner that clicks and hums, then gestures behind a screen. The chilled air bites at Romi's skin as she strips down in silence. The woman’s hands are brisk, gloved and impersonal. She checks wrists, ribs, spine, under her breasts—

 

“Is this really necessary?” Romi mutters, teeth chattering.

 

“Yeah.” The guard’s tone is as cool as the room. “Boss clocked more attempts on his life last quarter than I can count. We don't play nice. Open yer mouth.”

 

Romi opens it. A powdery, bitter latex finger hooks under her tongue, jabs at her teeth and gums, then sweeps her cheeks. Romi resists the urge to gag or bite.

 

When the guard withdraws her finger, Romi leans back, eyes wide in mock horror. "Why would anyone wanna kill him?"

 

The guard’s expression doesn't change. But Romi catches a flicker—a ripple of dry amusement brushing against her mind. She doesn’t answer. Instead, she grips Romi's face and yanks her eyelids open, flashing a pen torch straight into her pupils. Romi reels as the light sears comet trails across her vision. 

 

By the time she's allowed to redress, her fingers fumble with cold, and her nerves crawl. The guard gestures toward the hardwood double doors with ornate carvings. The centrepieces of the lobby. The others are lined up—other fresh recruits, maybe—empty-handed, tight-faced.

 

“Hands out where we can see ‘em,” barks the other guard, striding to the front of the line and taking point. “From here on out, you don't talk unless asked. You listen. No side-eyes. No damn signals. No twitchin’. No bright ideas. Eyes on the boss. Or you lose 'em.”

 

Romi’s stomach twists. She hasn’t eaten all day, and honestly, just thinking about food is enough to make bile rise in her throat. She’s empty except for a gnawing feeling of dread. 

 

She shuffles forward with the others, a cattle line of strays and survivors, filing between the now-open doors like inmates on execution day.

 

The penthouse office is a cathedral of excess—vast enough to swallow a hundred freaks. The air inside is colder still, a cutting chill that sinks into Romi's bones. Deadly clean. Not a speck of dust or warmth in it. Sixty stories up and sealed in glass, it's the kind of place that makes you second-guess every life choice you've ever made. A desk commands the space. No, it's not just any desk. A monument. Carved from something rich, the kind of wood you only see in old-money museums or war-crime tribunals. It glows beneath the lights, so polished it reflects the ceiling almost like water. A single monitor, an open laptop, a pen tray.

 

And behind it—him. Back turned to the room, the man stares out through floor-to-ceiling windows at the skyline below, a vast sprawl of neon arteries and steel skeletons—his city, if the stories are true. If one could—would—call him a man. Romi knew what to expect. Technically. She’d heard the whispers—always half-laughed, half-believed. Stories passed like urban legends in alleys and backroom booths. But there's a difference between hearing and seeing, between myth and presence—

 

How much would a slab of wood like that even cost? Ten years' rent? A house? Ten? She’ll never afford furniture like that. Hell, she’ll never afford furniture at all—and she'll be lucky if she makes it through this without puking on it. But the thought distracts from the hollow ache in her guts. 

 

A breath stutters from her lungs. She yanks her eyes away from the silent figure and lets them drift upward—more reinforced panels, glass, and dark metal beams. Behind them, twin staircases curl like jaws from the entry doors. They lead up to a balcony mezzanine that wraps around the room where more heavily armed guards stand watch, like vultures in the rafters. From up there, Romi and the others look like targets. A scattered collection of misfits, each trying to act cool. But none of them are acting cool. No superpower is needed to know she’s not the only one on edge. The tension is thick enough to choke on. Static in the air, sharp as ozone.

 

Romi’s teeth start to chatter again. She clenches her jaw, but the shuddering spreads down her limbs to her hands and knees. Her arms are stiff, and her legs are like jelly. It’s not the cold. It’s the kind of nervous energy that feels like it’ll kill her. It's him. His silence. His stillness. His reputation hangs in the room like a loaded gun—and the weight of everyone’s anxiety crushes Romi's chest. She digs her fingers into her wrist, finding the old scars by muscle memory, grounding herself in pain and pressure. One breath. Then another. Dragging in crisp, cool air. Focus. The world shrinks to sound: the soft whirr from behind the desk. The low thrum of the city through armoured glass. Somewhere, faintly, a clock ticks on. Slow. Metronomic. Almost drowned out by her own heartbeat. Time moves differently in here. 

 

Finally, the boss spins his chair around with a soft hydraulic hiss.

 

“Well, well, well. ~” 

 

Romi swallows hard, lips pressed into a thin line, eyebrows knitting together like maybe if she concentrates hard enough, she'll disappear. No such luck. Oh, it only gets worse from here.

 

The boss lounges in his chair like a man who's never been told no and didn't like how it sounded the one time someone tried. One leg draped over the other, fingers steepled, posture loose but deliberate—every angle calculated. He turns his head slowly from side to side, surveying them with a gaze that feels clinical, like appraising livestock at auction. Or maybe that’s just her imagination. It’s hard to tell. She can't read him. At all. It would almost be refreshing if he—

 

"Look at you all!" His voice curls with mock warmth. "Crawling out from the gutters to join me."

 

He leans back, idly tapping a rhythm on the armrest.

 

“You all think this is your moment? A golden ticket? A fresh start?” The boss makes a scoffing sound. "Newsflash amigos! You’re not here because you’re special. You’re here because you couldn’t hack it out there. Or worse—you didn’t even try. Either way?”

 

He tilts his head, a soft series of clicks accompanying the motion. 

“I own you now—and that’s the part that matters. ¿Comprende?” 

 

He pauses for a beat.

 

Silence. Nobody breathes. They comprende. 

 

The boss uncrosses his legs and shifts forward just enough. Each word is deliberate. A speech he's rehearsed a hundred times. 

 

"And loyalty?” He lets the word hang in the air like something rotten. “Forget the fairy tales. It's not about you sticking with me. It’s about whether I stick with you. And let me be very clear—I don't do charity."

 

A pause. 

 

“You stop being useful? Oh, well.” The boss shrugs, casual as hell.  “There’s always a place for trash. You’ll figure it out."

 

He lifts one hand and lazily draws a finger across his—throat?

 

“For the record? I don’t mind taking out the trash myself. And looking at some of you—" The grin in his voice is mean. "Well. That’s exactly why you’re here." 

 

The boss leans in even closer, palms now flat on the polished desk, his tone dipping lower.

 

"I don’t give a fuck about your sob stories. I don’t do second chances. I’m a man of results. You pull off some impressive shit? Sure, I’ll notice. Might keep you around. But if you screw up?”

He straightens, tone dips like his smile is sharpening.

 

“You already know what happens." 

 

With a flick of his wrist, he dismisses the air between them. It’s now tainted with mediocrity. They’re irrelevant—a waste of his time. Trash.  

 

“I’ve dealt with hitters twice as smart, twice as desperate—loaded with better tricks than you’ll ever pull. Know what they’ve all got in common?”

 

He moves his head in another slow, sweeping motion. He lets the pause hang until it turns into a threat. 

 

”They’re either dead or wishing they were.”

 

Rising smoothly, he steps around the desk with a lazy grace. No hurry. No wasted movement. Just the kind of casual menace that comes from knowing he doesn’t have to lift a finger to ruin your life.

 

”You thinking of double-crossing me? That little spark of ambition’s got your fingers twitching?”

 

His head tilts again, smooth and mechanical. Measured for maximum unease. 

 

“Don’t.”

He chuckles. Just enough to show the threat in it.

 

“I’m not just ten moves ahead, I own the goddamn board.”

 

He stops in front of them. Close enough to see how no one quite manages to meet his gaze.

 

"You think I’m the monster?" he croons—so close it feels like he’s speaking straight to Romi. "Nah. I’m just the one who keeps the real big ones fed. Keeps 'em happy."

 

He lets the silence stretch again, just long enough. Then, hands slipping into his pockets, he returns to stand before the desk. 

 

"So, ~ you’re expendable. Keep up, or get replaced. Simple math. You’re only as good as your last job.”

 

A beat.

 

”And since most of you haven’t done shit yet, I’m already expecting disappointment."

 

He shrugs. 

 

”Go ahead, surprise me.”

 

He leans back against the desk, posture loose, already bored.

 

“Welcome to the team. If you last more than a week? Hell. You might even enjoy the ride. ~”

 

The boss of Chicago is a walking nightmare in a pretty suit. He's not just a sociopath—he’s a stage show. A rambling terror who doesn't just like the sound of his own voice, he loves it. Malicious, magnetic, and completely unhinged. A real asshole. The kind you usually only hear about in cautionary tales—right before the lights cut out. But here’s the thing, Romi already knew this. Knew it in her bones. And yet, no matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop the twitch at the corner of her mouth when the crime lord speaks. Not because it's that funny—god, no... maybe?—but the absurdity of it. It’s like being trapped in some deranged cabaret. They’re all forced to watch the ringleader—a T-Pain impersonator with a god complex—hold court. Every line he throws out lands somewhere between stand-up comedy and a death threat, and she’s front row. Front and centre. Trying not to laugh like a lunatic while everyone else holds their breath. It’s a show—a one-man act. Romi's pretty sure the boss is manic. Add obscene wealth and a superhuman intellect to that, and he’s about as dangerous as they come. 

 

“Something funny to you, chica?”

 

His voice slices through her mind like a straight razor—cool, amused, and way too calm. His is a face that never budges. And right now, it’s locked on Romi, waiting for the slightest twitch. Tilted forward ever so slightly. 

 

Romi swallows. Loud. Stupid loud. Dumb cartoon-character-loud. 

 

She’s so fucked. 

 

The boss of Chicago is hilarious but also terrifying in a way that makes your bones forget how to be bones. The kind of man who might crack a joke and then casually remove a few fingers with secateurs to underline the punchline. And, right now? He’s enjoying this. Every. Damn. Second. 

 

Sweat beads down the back of her neck. The strip lighting and grand floor lamps—soft and dim a second ago—now feel like interrogation beams. The city outside, once a glittering skyline, blurs behind the glass. It all feels wrong. Tilted. The universe wants in on her humiliation. 

 

“No, boss.” The words come out of her lips like sandpaper. It’s a whisper that barely exists. It’s weak, dry, and pathetic. Might as well have said no, please.

 

He doesn’t say a word, and in that silence, in the lazy sprawl of his body language, in the way he taps his fingers against the desk like it's no big deal—there's violence. Coiled and waiting.

 

Then, soft like they're the only ones in the room—voice smiling now: 

 

“Uh-huh. Are you sure? ~” 

 

It’s like he’s playing with her—stringing her along like a cat with a half-gored mouse. That smug, autotuned voice buzzes against her skull, all oily charm and jagged static. It grates, grinds—but god help her, it sticks. Scratches some primal, broken itch in the back of her brain. She hates it. Hates how he's under her skin, winding her up like a toy. She’s furious. Electrified. Maybe even thrilled. There’s something sickly satisfying—emphasis on the sick—about it all. Like a junkie circling a high she knows will ruin her.

 

The room's attention is molten. Every pair of eyes—every mind—locks onto Romi like she's been nailed to the centre of a target. Her cheeks ignite. Her left eyelid starts twitching. Again. It's been there ever since she landed in this gilded nightmare. Hell, maybe even before that, when she got drafted into this mess. Maybe the twitching’s a sign. Like her body’s been trying to warn her: time to run. She didn't listen. And now it's all unravelling. She prays no one sees. But they do. Of course, they do. Her pulse pounds in her ears. Her vision blurs at the edges—depth collapsing. The world slips sideways. The marble floor beneath her heels feels unstable. Like it's pulsing or breathing or about to open up, throw her back and swallow her whole. God, it'd be better than whatever the fuck this is. Fall through the floors—screaming, burning, and laughing—all the way down until she hits bedrock. 

 

She’s a sacrificial lamb with a barcode and boot prints on her back. But she’ll be fucked if she lies down on the altar for slaughter. Why him? Why this snarky, smug bastard? This glitchy abomination? This irritating, arrogant thing? After everything she's seen, everything she's done, this is what gets to her? No. No fucking way.

 

She straightens. Pulls her spine up. Breathes once. Meets the boss's gaze, looks him dead in—wait, his eyes are magenta. Baby girl pink and magenta? Nope. Nah. Not today. Focus. 

 

She clears her throat and forces some words out: “Tickle in my throat. Sorry, boss.”

 

The boss pauses, letting her simmer and sweat before slamming the door open on whatever this briefing is supposed to be. 

 

“Now listen up, losers—eyes open, ears to the ground." He spins the laptop with one hand, the movement slick and showy, like a magician revealing the final card. On-screen: a grainy image, glowing with the cold blue burn of surveillance. 

 

"Whoever brings me the location of this quantum probability chip—"

 

Clap. His hands snap together like a gunshot. The crack echoes sharply across the marble, making not only Romi flinch. His tone shifts to cheerful, too cheerful. Buttery and false.

 

"—gets a little debt scrubbed clean. Generous, right? Now, it’s fine if you don’t get what it is. Most of you aren’t here to think—you’re here to catch bullets while someone smarter gets paid.”

 

A beat of quiet. Then the grin in the boss's voice turns mean.

 

"Well, unless someone else here wants to blush like a schoolgirl for papi—" He spreads his arms, palms up, mock-saintly, tilting his head like a puppet on a string—"then ~ get the hell out and make me some money. ~”  

 

Oh, that’s it. That’s it. The last straw. Romi doesn’t need to be told twice. She's out---fast, half-tripping, practically running backwards out of the room. Boots thudding hard like she's fleeing a crime scene. Like a wild animal retreating under strobe lights and sirens. The street's shadows swallow her up, and they still don't feel dark enough. She needs air. She needs silence. She needs to rip her brain out and throw it at a wall. 

 

Romi’s new boss has a machine for a head. 

 

 

- (˶ T ப T˶) -

 

 

Two weeks ago, the Riveras called Romi upstairs.

 

That alone was weird. The Riveras usually only acknowledged her when they needed something. And even then, it was more like barking at a stray than any genuine interaction. 

 

"Lock up the club. Restock the bar. Find the other girls. Get on stage. Give Susie some Narcan and drag her under the lights. What's that pendejo thinking? Now, bag these pills, hit the floor, don’t come back until you’ve scalped ‘em for triple.”

 

But today was different. This time, they wanted her upstairs. That was new. 

 

She stepped into the Riveras' office--a dingy, nicotine-stained crypt above the club--and she froze. Someone was already there. A stranger perched on their guest chair like he'd just walked out of a bad noir film--slicked back green hair, expensive suit, and the air of someone who'd seen too much and cared too little. 

 

“Is this the girl?” he asked, eyeing Romi like discounted meat in a butcher's case.

 

Romi’s stomach dropped. Cold and hollow. Her pulse skipped a beat. A horrible suspicion bloomed in her chest. She tried to get a read on him. But it was like watching a train pass on the L---blurred, fast, already gone.

 

“Who the fuck are you?” she asked, harder than she felt.

 

“Sit down, Rom,” Uncle Rivera grunted. He reached out a gnarled hand, ready to shove her into a seat like a recalcitrant pet.

 

Romi’s instincts screamed---run. She pivoted, ready to escape out the door. Auntie Rivera’s grip snapped onto her arm like a vice.

 

“Let go!” Romi hissed.

 

"You don’t listen, huh? Always got somethin’ to say!” Auntie snapped, twisting her arm and hauling her back toward the chair.

 

“I won’t!” Romi struggled against Auntie’s iron grip.

 

“He’s not here for that. You think too small, niña.” Auntie’s grip tightened. “Now sit your skinny ass down and show respect to Señor Isotope.”

 

Isotope, for his part, didn’t flinch. He just looked at Romi like he’d been accused of worse.

 

“You’re about to be a very lucky girl,” he said, grinning like a cat with feathers in his teeth. “Don’t you wanna hear why?”

 

Romi’s panic spiked. His mind was a black hole---just a blank, hungry void. Nothing but pull. She gripped the edge of the chair, knuckles bone-white.

 

“No," she said. 

 

Isotope’s grin thinned and tightened. “Aren’t you a delight.”

 

The Riveras had sold her out. They’d told this man about her "gift." Now he was here on behalf of his boss—whoever he was—ready to add another freak show act to his payroll. Ready to collect on whatever got the job done. Insurance scams. Trafficking. Bodies in concrete. The kind of operations that always needed someone like Romi—someone who could get in your head, whether you wanted her there or not. She was about to be repackaged, branded, and outsourced. 

 

“Isn’t that wonderful?” Auntie Rivera beamed, all fake sweetness.

 

Romi didn't wait to hear more. She lunged for the door. Made it two steps before Auntie Rivera’s fingers wrapped around her wrist like a steel cable. Romi knew the drill. Knew what came next. She braced herself for the blow, the ugly kicks to her ribs, but Auntie Rivera didn’t waste any time with theatrics. Just yanked Romi back hard, lips near her ear.

 

“You’ll behave now, understand?”

 

Uncle sat polishing his revolver in his lap. 

 

Isotope watched with polite detachment.

 

“I thought you needed me here." Romi's voice trembled despite her best efforts. "At the club.” 

 

They'd said they needed her. Their thoughts had always echoed that sentiment--until now. She hadn’t seen this coming. The pills must've dulled everything, including her gift. 

 

“Plenty of girls,” Auntie Rivera said dismissively with a shrug.

 

“None like me.”

 

“Exactly. None as much trouble as you.” Auntie’s eyes glinted. “And your new boss? He’s not just anybody. He runs this whole city.”

 

The Machine.

 

The Voice Without a Face.

 

The Black Máscara.

 

The suit who never sleeps.

 

Machine Head. 

 

Romi’s stomach sank. The Riveras weren’t even pretending anymore. She was currency. They were cashing in for protection. One little girl for one big favour. 

 

Uncle Rivera puffed on his cigarette, the smoke thick and suffocating. “You’ll be happy out there in the city,” he said like he was talking about summer camp instead of selling her to a cybernetic crime boss.

 

Yeah. The Riveras'd be real happy. They'd keep running their little sex and drugs operation in peace while Romi got shipped off and remade—some fire-starting, drug-dealing, kneecap-breaking lackey. Or something worse.  Something with a smile and a leash.

 

Isotope leaned forward, elbows on the table like they were all old pals.

 

“C’mon, kid. Let’s not play dumb. This? This is the best deal you’re ever gonna get.” He smiled—a demon at the crossroads with a contract. “What you got now? You ain’t got no social, no family worth shit, no future. Now, you get a roof. You get backup. You get to matter.” A pause. “This is your big shot. Take the hand up. Beats dancing for scraps or getting clipped in some alley.”

 

“Wow.” Romi stared at him, deadpan. “This is great. Really great. Terrific. Thank you so much.”

 

Isotope just grinned back, unbothered, like she'd said exactly what he wanted to hear. 

 

After he left, Romi kept it together just long enough to thank the Riveras for their generosity. Then she trudged back down to the bar, heart as heavy as lead. She worked her last shift in dead silence, pouring drinks like a corpse on autopilot. The Popsicle Palace club never looked more like a tomb.

Chapter 2: i know where daisy sleeps

A flash of violent green tears through the dark, lighting the night with an eerie brilliance. The din of city traffic drowns the buzz of energy, swallowing it whole. 

 

“Boss wants to see you.”

 

Romi jolts—then catches herself. She leans back against the fire escape rail like she’s just out here for the view. Plays it girlish whimsy like she isn’t halfway to a panic attack.

 

“No.”

 

Isotope snorts. “You’d’ve made a lousy hooker, y’know that? No charm. Zero.” 

 

Romi watches an image flicker behind his eyes: her body tumbling off the edge like trash, weightless, forgotten. It’s casual, detached. Like he’s flipping through bad ideas in a catalogue. And just as quickly, it’s gone. 

 

“You’re joking, right?” 

 

“Me? Nah. You’re rude. Got a mouth like you wanna get smacked. And let’s be honest—you ain’t much to look at. Like somebody dug up a half-dead kid. Eyes like you've seen too much, slept too little. It ain’t right.”

 

Funny. Romi thinks his eyes look worse. 

 

He leans in, tone dropping to sour candy. “Maybe some real sick fucks’d still pay, but—"

 

The image flickers back. She's naked and broken on the sidewalk, chest bare to the moon, eyes glassy like some unlucky pigeon. He lets it hang there. He wants her to see it.

 

“No, creep,” she bites. “I meant about him wanting to see me.”

 

He straightens, shrugs. “Ah, yeah. That part’s legit. No joke there.”

 

A chill slips down her spine. “You know why?”

 

“C’mon, how the hell would I know? I don’t pretend to get what’s goin’ on in that metal head of his. Or anyone’s head. I ain’t you.”

 

“He knows who I am?” 

 

“He knows everyone. That’s the business. Now quit with the third degree, yeah? You’re makin’ this painful.” 

 

She drops her cigarette and grinds it out under her heel. But her mind’s already spinning.

 

“When?”

 

Isotope’s grin spreads. “Now.” 

 

 

- (˶ T ப T˶) -

 

The world convulses. Romi’s ripped through space like garbage down a chute. One black hole spits her out through another, time and space folding like origami. One second here, next second somewhere else. She hits the floor hard.

 

“Fuck.” She’s spinning, vision swimming, barely catching herself.

 

A familiar dark synthetic chuckle.  

 

She dry retches. 

 

“Oh, hello, giggles.”

 

Romi flinches at the voice. His voice. The boss.

 

“Rough landing." Isotope's high-pitched laughter bounces off the bomb-proof glass and walls. The noise and his mind’s abnormal and dark inner workings make Romi's skin crawl. 

 

“Don’t mind him. He finds other people’s misery hilarious. It’s a character flaw.” 

 

“Hey! Don’t throw me under the bus, boss! You were laughin’ too!” 

 

“Shut the hell up. ~” 

 

Romi breathes through her nose, eyes squeezed shut tight, hands braced on the cold, polished floor. She fights the nausea. Then, something cuts through the disorientation.

 

Fear. Not hers. His. Somebody else is in the room. Real fear. Dense. A man's distress bleeds into her mind, his pain like a spike through her skull. Everything he's suffered. Raw, suffocating panic crashes into her mind like a tidal wave. Like trying to breathe through water running over a cloth. She can’t shut it out. Images breach her mental walls, propelled by the man's desperation. Flickering in her brain like an old microfilm reader. She sees what he sees. It. Skull and neck cold and silver. A twisted mockery of a human face. Split magenta eyes that don't blink. That permanent, fixed smile carved into a Luchador mask. Black and jagged yellow-gold. A cartoon nightmare you can't wake up from.  Romi grits her teeth and digs her nails into her scarred wrists. No. She doesn't want to see more of the boss like that. She doesn’t want to know. Doesn't want to feel. She swallows the bile burning up her throat. She breathes deeply. Once. Twice. Then straightens up and looks up. 

 

Back in the penthouse office. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Grand doors, archway, and stairs. No comfort or humanity in it, just money. Machine Head leans against his desk. Cool. Polished. Body all poise and predator calm. Like he hasn't moved a muscle since the last time she saw him. Isotope’s off to the side, arms crossed, still looking like someone pissed in his cereal. And in the middle of them up on the tiered platform? A man tied to a chair. Bruised, bloodied, soaked, gagged and scared shitless.

 

“Alright.” Machine Head modulates like a game show host, his voice warbling as he pleases: “Showtime. Let’s see what that spooky little head of yours can do. What’s our guest thinking? What’s rattling around in his skull? Enlighten me.”

 

Romi wipes her mouth on her sleeve. The sour copper taste of bile and adrenaline sticks to her cotton tongue. Everything in her screams to look away. The urge is so strong it itches beneath her skin. But she doesn’t. Can’t. It feels like a deadly game. A revolver and one bullet. A single wrong blink, and she's dead. 

 

“He’s afraid of you.”

 

Machine Head laughs. “Oh wow? No shit.” He shakes his head mockingly. “You mean the guy tied to the chair is scared of me? Got anything I can’t figure out just by looking at him? Now, the big reveal, mija. Show me what you’re worth.”

 

Romi's eyes burn. 

 

“Hack,” Isotope coughs under his breath.

 

“Can you get rid of him?” she asks, voice small and cracking, glancing at Isotope.

 

“I’ve already tried, but the guy’s like a stray. I shoo him off, and he teleports back. You want me to try again?” the boss teases.

 

Isotope scowls as if the boss fed him something bitter. 

 

“Please,” Romi answers. 

 

Machine Head doesn’t even look at Isotope. “Fuck off Isotope.” 

 

And Isotope fucks off in a flash of green. Just like that. Gone. 

 

“Better?” The boss doesn’t wait for an answer. “Good. I can’t stand him sometimes either.”

 

“Yeah. I mean—yes, boss,” she murmurs, barely audible. “What happens to him… after?” She flicks her eyes towards the man in the chair. 

 

“Depends on your performance, chica." His tone is light, almost casual. "How he ends up? That’s your final grade. No pressure.”

 

Right. No pressure. Romi opens her mind again, and the man's fear hits like rats in a cage strapped to her body. Like a blowtorch warming her toes. It's overwhelming. 

 

“What do you wanna know, boss?" she grits out. 

 

Machine Head clutches his hands together like a cat playing with a mouse. 

 

“Hm. ~ Do they have the chip? Where is it? What’s security like?” His words speed up with enthusiasm and hunger. “God, I missed this. Haven’t had a good session since that whole freeway thing. You? You're making it fun again." 

 

Romi swallows another mouthful of bile and somehow focuses, pulling through the noise and switching back into business mode. 

 

“Yeah. It's out south. He can see Rainbow Beach from the window. He’s got a card in his coat. His face is on it. Eye scan. Panic buttons under the desks. Lockdown system. Four guards, small handguns. The chip’s sealed in a tube. There's a code.”

 

A tear rolls down the man’s cheek. He’s breaking, trembling in his terror.

 

“Look at you!” Machine Head throws his arms up like she just won the lottery. "Pulling secrets out of thin air! You’re a goddamn magician.”

 

Beat.

 

“Guess you were worth dragging out of that Popsicle Palace dump.” She can hear the grin, and it’s all ego.

 

“Now, I’m not saying I don’t trust you, chica. I do. You're just so... sweet. ~” Machine Head drags the word out unnaturally as if he can taste it. 

 

She doesn’t need to read his mind to know what’s next. No loose ends. Game over. Her stomach drops. She starts inching back.

 

The boss shrugs off his pristine white suit jacket, hangs it neatly on his desk chair, and rolls up his sleeves. His forearms are a little tanned with some muscle and corded veins. His hands are all opulence, gold rings flashing, a Rolex glinting under the lights. So human, it's somehow more disturbing. 

 

“But hey. I’m a 'trust but verify' kinda guy. Let's call this... professional development. You in?”

 

Fucking hell. He’s way too chipper.

 

“And this guy? He looks like he’s always got more to say. The chatty type." 

 

Romi clenches her fists. Her gut turns. She's already barely holding it together. 

 

Machine Head doesn’t wait for an answer. He yanks the tape off the man’s mouth with a loud, almost comical rip.

 

The man screams. It breaks mid-pitch, too panicked to speak clearly. And then, he keeps screaming.

 

"It's true!" Romi blurts. "What I told you—it's real. Please don't—" 

 

“Mercy’s expensive, chica. How do you know you're right?” 

 

She hesitates. She’s never sure if she's right. It’s not an exact science. She’s a weak telepath at best. She's better at reading vibes than minds. Her "gift"? It’s a flood of feelings and half-formed images, always just shy of drowning her. She doesn’t get to choose what comes through. Has to keep a wall up, or she’ll lose herself in the noise. What slips past? Snippets. Impressions. Sometimes, they come as sharp as glass. Sometimes, it’s like she’s reading tarot in the dark. But she's not here to play butcher's apprentice. 

 

He doesn't wait for an answer again. 

 

“You don’t? Yeah, me neither. So let's test it." He tilts his head and clutches his metal jaw like he's picking a wine to pair with their meal. "Now, you seem squeamish, so we'll ease into it." 

 

Beat. 

 

"Tell me, does he look like a family man to you?" His voice is all smiling enjoyment until he suddenly snarls, glitching and distorted: "Would you shut. the. fuck. up? I'm trying to talk here!~"

 

The man flinches. Quiet. 

 

Romi’s heart pounds. The man's unravelling fast. 

 

Don’t kill my dog, please, the thought floats from the man like static. 

 

“Yeah,” Romi whispers, reluctant. "He's got people." 

 

"Look, I get it. You're new. You're nervous." He really didn't get it. "But here's the thing. People lie. They beg. They say anything to keep their teeth. So we push a little."

 

He leans in, his voice all grin.

 

"Repeat after me, giggles." 

 

He turns to the man: "I know where your family lives.~ So that means you're gonna talk~ until I say you’re fucking done."

 

Romi adds: "I know where Daisy sleeps."

 

Machine Head cracks up. 

 

The man looks at Romi like she's the devil's handmaiden. 

“Just tell him,” Romi pleads. “Please. Just tell him.”

 

”I-Illinois Quantum—" The lab technician is stammering and ugly crying. “—and Microelectronics Park. PsiQuantum Labs. Fourth Floor. The ID’s in my coat. The code’s on the back. Panic buttons… Cheap guards… please—"

 

“Too easy.” Machine Head sounds disappointed. 

 

Romi lets out a shaky breath. Relief. 

 

"Almost takes the sport out of it." 

 

The gunshot splits the world in half as Machine Head paints the floor with the labworker's brains. 

 

Everything after that is static. There is a high-pitched hum. Romi can't move. The sound drowns out everything. She's shaking, vibrating from the impact as if the sound punched her, her heart thumping. Don't fucking pass out.  She can't breathe through the stench. Blood. Gunpowder. Vomit in her throat. The labworker’s entire existence. All of the man’s quirks, the weird little things that made him, all gone in a blink. Machine Head erased his soul. She’s seen people die before, sure. Felt the weight of it. But this? This is different.

 

"Not bad, chica." 

 

His voice cuts through like a knife. 

 

She stares at him. Don't fucking pass out. She tries to focus. Stay tethered. Her eyes zoom in on a flick of blood stark on the white material of the boss’s waistcoat. A drop on his pink tie. The way he tucks the gun away like it's just a tool. How his waistcoat and shirt fit him without the bulk of the suit jacket. Now, she imagines where skin meets metal. Her pupils dilate until they swallow her iris, lingering on the sharp edges of his faceplate. 

 

Then, the slow and mocking clap breaks through to her ringing ears.

 

But the ringing still intensifies, louder and louder, a deafening roar. Romi’s eyes dart, searching for something else to anchor her to reality. The artwork on the walls starts to swim, the colours bleeding together in a nonsensical mess. Her body fails. Knees buckle. She drops.

 

“Excuse me,” she chokes out, raising a hand. “Boss—”

 

Machine Head nudges a chunk of skull and brain matter with his shoe like gum on the carpet.

 

Nausea wins. Romi’s body, covered in a cold sweat, lurches. 

 

Machine Head watches.

 

She sinks. Everything goes white noise. Louder than the boss. Louder than the gunshot. Louder than everything. Fingers dig under her jaw rough enough to bruise. She doesn't mind. Anything to focus on. When the pressure lifts, she blinks rapidly, but the world remains a blur. Clarity slips through her fingers like sand.

 

Machine Head squeezes her knee, voice a cruel lilt: “Told you. Squeamish.”

 

Romi nods, weak and resigned. Concrete limbs. Heavy eyes. No fight left. 

 

“Giggles.” The boss lets out a synthetic coo. “Look at you~. So soft. Can’t even handle a little blood.” Cruel amusement and condescension are thick in every syllable. No warmth. All teeth. 

 

She jerks at the sound of his voice, just as a damp cloth is pressed to her cheek. She must’ve blacked out. The boss is cleaning her up. The cold towel grazes her lips, trails down her throat, brushes the slope of her collarbone. Then lower, knuckles grazing the swell of one breast. The chill works like a magnet, pulling her awareness back into place. She's on a hard chaise, her spine aching. Everything feels too sharp now. Except for him. His touch is too uncharacteristically gentle. Careful. Intimate. She reaches for his hand, taking longer than she’d care to admit. Both of hers grip it hard. His skin is warm, it's startling. She didn't know what she expected.

 

“I’ve got it,” she says, voice tight, higher than usual. “I’m... okay now.”

 

“Oh?” His voice comes lower, quieter, rougher. Almost real. “You good?”

 

His faceplate rises to meet Romi’s pale face. She digs her nails into his skin. Hard. Something in her hopes it hurts. She hopes he bleeds.

 

“Yes,” she breathes, releasing his wrist. 

 

He doesn’t move. Doesn't speak. His face tilts slightly. Then he is still. So still. The silence is thick, like waiting for something to crack. He's too still. Is he still in there? Thoughts ticking away behind his cold metal face? She's used to his noise, his bluster, the flexing, the gestures, the performance. Silence feels... dangerous. Just fans somewhere inside his skull whirring softly. A white noise hum. It's fucking eerie. 

 

She starts peeling down her ruined stockings. 

 

He moves, the motion abrupt enough she startles, before he hands her a crisp white shirt. Turns away like a gentleman, offering her the tiniest shred of modesty. 

 

She shimmies out of the vomit and blood-splattered dress. The fabric slides off like a second skin. The shirt’s beautiful. Expensive as hell no doubt. She shrugs it on, focusing on the smooth fabric. She fumbles with the buttons. Fingers clumsy and trembling.  

 

She looks up as the boss straightens a vase. Vest and tie gone. The absence is jarring. So is the silence. There are no words. No thoughts. Like being alone but with someone else in the room. A strange, alien loneliness. A novel experience to Romi. She tries not to look at the corpse in the chair. 

 

When Machine Head turns, Romi's still buttoning, knee bouncing up and down. 

 

“Need cleanup,” he says, voice is all business, clipped and cold. “I’ll get Isotope to squirrel you back to the shithole he—"

 

“No.”

 

He echoes it like it's a foreign word. “No?”

 

"I'll walk, boss." The words fall out because anything's better than another trip with Isotope. Even dying in the street. Even if her legs feel like spaghetti. 

 

He crouches. White fabric stretching over his chest and thighs. Magenta optics level with her eyes. Unreadable.

 

An artificial laugh, short and low. "Nah. You won't." 

 

He places a hand to stop her bouncing knee. Her throat tightens. 

 

“You’re mine now, giggles. Can't have you wandering the streets. That’d be dumb. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”

 

Machine Head doesn’t wait for her assent. Why would he? No choice. Just orders. There's something in the way he says it. The cold logic, the absolute certainty. It makes her feel something awful. She can't name it, and she refuses to let herself try. The worst part is there's something about him now, something too human. It's in the way he moves. The way he doesn't. She hates it. Hates herself for it. Hates him more for making her feel anything. 

 

She fidgets with the shirt buttons again. He tilts his head as if watching her hands. Oddly quiet and still again.

 

Her lips move before her brain catches up with her. “You’re really uncomfortable to talk to,” she mutters. The words so serious, so dry, as if she wants Machine Head to be concerned about it. 

 

“Hah. Right back at you. You’re a little freak, giggles, you know that? No wonder you’ve got no emergency contacts.”

 

That one lands. Stinging hard. Her eyes widen. Before she retorts, he reaches out and pats her head. Gently. And leaves his hand resting in her hair. The gesture disorients her. The silence grows again, heavy and crawling. Thoughts bounce in her skull. Weird and unfiltered. Rattling like rocks in a tin can. She stares at his metal face. No thoughts bounce back. No feedback. No reflections. No psychic noise. No microexpressions. No expressions at all. Just silence. Nothing to read.

 

"You're horrible." 

 

He leans in closer and does not miss a beat. "So are you," he shoots back, voice cloying. "Miss 'I know where Daisy sleeps.' You're a real piece of work." 

 

"You said you wouldn’t hurt him," she murmurs quiet, like she doesn’t want to own the accusation.

 

She shifts, tries to pull away. Machine Head doesn’t allow it. One hand moves from her hair to grasp her waist, bunching up the shirt's material. The other moves up from her knee to spread on her naked thigh. Grip firm. Possessive. Romi is hyper-aware of her skin exposed to the cool air and fights a shudder.  

 

“Mm. No. Doesn't sound like something I'd say,” he hums, fingers curling. “Not my style."   

 

Romi tries again. Machine Head does not let go. 

 

“Where are you going, chica?” Voice low. Curious. Dangerous.

 

His fingers press harder into her thigh. Just a little. Enough to remind her: she’s not in control.

 

“Nowhere,” she whispers, biting her lip.

 

“Smart.” His tone dips lower. Meaner. He drags his fingers along her thigh. “Don’t run. Running’s stupid. Remember what I said about the trash? You’re useful. Stay where I can find you and then you’re safe. Don’t make me chase you. ~ ”

 

His words wrap around her like a leash. Tight on her throat. 

 

She nods. Or maybe whimpers. She’s not sure. Her chest tightens. She stares into the magenta glow. Stuck. A deer in headlights, frozen and wide-eyed, just waiting for the impact. Stupid. So fucking dumb. 

 

“You’re useful,” he repeats, mechanised voice smooth and sharp. “Not irreplaceable. Just convenient. Cleaner. Less mess. Less screaming.” His voice gets heavy with a dark kind of inflection. “Hey, it’s fun to do worse with better tools. But how else are you meant to work off your debt?”

 

She stares, hollow. Words drip like oil. She owes him nothing. But no sob stories, right?  

 

”Still,” he muses. “I owe you, too. Let’s say… drinks. New dress, maybe. I’m generous when I’m in a good mood. No one can say I don’t settle my debts.”

 

He laughs, the kind that feels wrong on a primal level.

 

“A dress?” she echoes, dazed.

 

He doesn't answer. Doesn't repeat himself. Doesn't need to. 

 

Then his thumb slides. Up. Romi stiffens. Watches his hand. Watches herself not stop him. She can't look away. Can't breathe. His thumb grazes the soft flesh of her inner thigh, slow. His strokes are so gentle, back and forth, back and forth. 

 

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" he murmurs, leaning even closer, hand sliding up further. "You've got nothing. Nobody. Bet you'd love being kept."

 

His voice coils around her spine. The muscles in her thighs relax. From exhaustion as much as anything. Parting as he exerts a subtle pressure. Giving in is easy. No harm in it. She sinks back. There's no room to retreat. 

 

"Yeah." The word escapes traitorously soft, pitching up at the end like a question. 

 

Her head’s swimming again. She’s dizzy from the way his voice sinks into her skin like poison. Something tightens inside of her, in anticipation. Of what, exactly? her inner voice sneers. Heat coils low. That tension blooms. Slow. Dangerous.

 

His touch? Casual. Intimate. And, honestly, it shouldn't be.

 

"Good girl." 

 

The words detonate somewhere in her chest. Her pulse kicks into high gear. Blood and heat surges to meet his fingers like a desperate, love-hungry puppy. A feeling like electricity crackles beneath his hand. He sets her nerve endings on fire. Marking her with a memory that’ll stay lodged in her mind for days or, more likely, years.

 

The tightness in her gut unfurls, slow, like a goddamn flower in the sun. Like silk.

 

His fingers curl, stretching, gripping.

 

And damn it, she tries to swallow it all down. She tells herself it's the drugs. It's nothing. Shock. Exhaustion. The afterglow of trauma. She hates herself for this. But the pressure builds. The burn is real. Undeniable. Deep in her belly. In her core. It roars louder than any coherent thought she may muster. She tells herself she's disgusted. 

 

The scent of his cologne burns into her brain. Aromatics, amber, and vanilla. Faint as if he once cared to wear it but never bothered to reapply. Fuck, he even smells expensive and wrong. Like he'll cost more than anyone could ever afford. Money, murder, and machinery. The sharp bite of ozone after a lightning strike, leather, like war. Gunmetal warmed by skin. Blood on brass. He smells like power. Like control. Like ruin. The ghost of something burnt, like gunpowder, oil, circuits, maybe a building or two. His scent mixes with the metallic tang of blood sprayed across the floor. Beckons something primal inside. 

 

Her brain screams at her to stop. She wants to crawl out of her own skin. Her body doesn't care. 

 

She draws in a ragged breath. Forces the words out like they cost something dear. "I'd like to go now, boss," she says, her voice sharp, brittle. "Thank you." 

 

She shifts her leg.

 

His hand stills and lingers, then lifts. Quick. Like he just touched something hot. 

 

She braces for the fallout. The glitching, rage-fueled outburst. ~ You go when I say you can go. ~ Instead: 

 

“Okay.” Flat. Cold. Emotionless. He straightens. Adjusts his cuffs. His hands shake. 

 

Her stomach flips. She watches him. Reads nothing. Nothing's clear anymore. She wants to scream. To run. To cry. But she's too exhausted. She shuts her eyes. 

 

Tomorrow, she’ll leave Chicago. She’d disappear before he could find her. Somehow. She will get out. She just doesn’t know how yet.

- (˶ T ப T˶) -

 

When Romi finally gets home, she sleeps for an hour, if you can call it sleep. Mostly, she just lies there, a statue of panic, like a deer again, except this time, the headlights are her own thoughts. She gives up and starts throwing clothes in a bag. Not like she has much that’s fit for daylight anyway. She owns just a few grungy shirts, some worn-out jeans, maybe a spare pair of matching socks if she's lucky. She folds the white shirt. His white shirt. She places it on top with care. It still smells too nice, too clean, too expensive. Citrus and musk. Like it’ll never belong. 

 

Where are you going, chica?

 

Where’s she gonna go? Nowhere. She’s got nothing. If she tried to run away, she’d probably end up like the lab worker. Or worse, she’d end up in a lab, again. She sighs and collapses onto the floor, head in her hands. Dramatic. Her brain starts firing panic shots. Anxiety’s like a bad Wi-Fi signal, cutting in and out, except every time it reconnects, it’s worse. Buffering her down like the roaring wind outside. What’s the plan here? She doesn't know. She’d end up afraid, trapped again. 

 

She could stay. Ugh. She hates that thought. But it’s true. Maybe she needs Machine Head. And he seems to need her too, though. So, maybe it’s not all bad. She stuffs her clothes back into drawers in reverse, like she's being rewound. She pulls on his shirt, and the starched fabric brushing against her skin mocks her. It whispers that she’s weak and taunts her about how easily she’d abandon her fight. That her courage has taken a vacation. She’s left with a cocktail of shame and bad decisions. Trading one cage for another. 

 

Romi downs a couple benzos and old school antihistamines with a warm beer, then lights up a joint with shaky fingers. The high hits crooked. She crawls back into bed like she’s tapping out from life. Coward, she thinks right before she begins to slip under, consumed by a feverish and weird mix of rescue fantasies, existential dread, and then finally nothing.

Chapter 3: you win some, you dim sum

“Why stay here when you could go anywhere?”

 

Romi hates how wistful that sounds. Like she’s some tragic hero. 

 

She sits cross-legged on the stained carpet of her shitty micro-apartment. The peeling linoleum in the kitchenette curls like dead leaves. One sad overhead bulb flickering like it's thinking about giving up. A roach darts under the heater. The place smells like mould, cheap air freshener, and something rotting.

 

Isotope perches on a busted fold-out chair across from her. Machine Head’s lieutenant is sipping instant coffee from a chipped mug that says, "World's Best Grandma." His black wool topcoat is draped over the only intact part of the couch, avoiding what's evolving on the cushions. 

 

“What? The Midwest?” Isotope squints like she just grew a second head. “Are you high right now? I told you to stay clean, didn’t I?” He sighs and rubs his temples. “You’re goddamn useless to us stoned.” 

 

Romi scowls. He’s not wrong, though. 

 

“You know what I mean.” 

 

“I’m like a bird.” 

 

“You’ll only fly away? That’s your big metaphor?” 

 

“Nah. This is home base. I know the streets. Know where the food’s at. Machine Head looks out for me. He makes sure I eat. You don't walk away from that. Now stop with the questions, alright? Try and focus here.”

 

“Okay, so the Order is a network, right?” she asks. 

 

Isotope just stares. His vibe's somewhere between bored uncle and burnt-out professor. But there's a weird comfort in that.

 

Romi sighs. The boss has her doing homework, and her so-called teacher couldn’t give less of a shit. Isotope’s weird, flickering, dark mindscape keeps bleeding into her thoughts. Random images, memories, and noises she's not surprised to hear. Honestly? She’s not that into the assignment, either.

 

“It’s the network. The big players, yeah,” she mumbles, answering her own question. She doesn’t sound convinced. Maybe because Isotope keeps looking at her like she's a cream puff.

 

“Mister Liu’s the boss of all bosses, and he’s a dragon.” Her lips twitch.

 

“Nah. Old Liu just projects as a dragon. Astral style.”

 

“Important distinction.”

 

“Damn right.” Isotope’s mouth curls slightly. Almost a smile. “Who’re the Crime Lords?”

 

“Well, our boss. Obviously. The Crime Lord of Chicago.” 

 

“Yeah, no shit.”

 

“Slaying Mantis,” she giggles, dragging her finger through the sticky leftover mess of cheese and caramel popcorn Isotope fronted.

 

Isotope watches her, deadpan. “Who’s he the Crime Lord of?” 

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t fuckin’ remember either. Who cares. The important part is you keep your head down so you don’t get your face ripped off. Mantis doesn’t like to share. He don’t play nice.”

 

She snorts.

 

“I’m serious, alright?” Isotope leans forward, suddenly intense. “Boss lost some serious cash the last time that freak showed up.”

 

His eyes glaze. Romi can see his brain short-circuiting at the image of the Mantis tearing through Machine Head’s guards like wrapping paper. It’s making him crack a little.

 

Romi bursts into laughter. Choking on it until bitter instant coffee nearly shoots out her nose.

 

"So, they all got powers, right?" she wheezes.

 

“Some. The rest got freaks like us on the payroll. That’s how they run the show.” 

 

She stops. Like us. Hm.

 

“Okay, and we’re meeting Mister Liu tonight?” Her stomach flips. Dread? Maybe. Excitement? Could be. She doesn't even know anymore.

 

“Who’s Toto?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Isotope's scratching the ears of a tiny terrier curled in his lap like a gremlin. 

 

“Her name’s Miss Daisy.”

 

“Didn’t know you had a dog.”

 

“She’s new.”

 

“If you die tonight, I ain’t feedin’ her. You know that, right? Who the hell gets a dog before a sit-down? That’s deranged. Irresponsible pet ownership, that is.”

 

“Yeah.” At least Isotope likes dogs better than people. Romi kind of likes that about him. She likes a lot about him. He is weird but tolerable. And he isn’t that unsettled around her, which is rare. 

 

“So, tonight. We’re going back to the tower?” Just saying it makes her skin crawl. One week wasn't enough to scrape the memories off. The nightmares still hit fresh, along with other equally uncomfortable feelings.

 

“Nah. Neutral ground. I’ll scoop you. Midnight sharp.”

 

“I can get there on my own.”

 

“You sure?” He chuckles, thumbing out a prior meet-up address. “Don't be late.” 

 

“What do I wear?” she asks, dead serious.

 

“Somethin’ sharp.”

 

“I don’t own sharp.”

 

“Then wear somethin’ nice.”

 

“Don't own that either.”

 

What passes for nice in her closet is mostly lingerie sets, fishnets, and glitter platforms. She’s not sure Liu's a fan of clubwear, but who knows? 

 

“Boss’ll hook you up. Just ask him.”

 

Oh yeah, he said that. Romi pulls her legs up and hugs her knees, the memory hitting like a slap. 

 

“Just throw on whatever. You girls are all the same.”

 

She eyes her compadre’s burgundy suit and long, styled, dyed hair. “Yeah. I’ll see you there.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Catcha.” And with that, Isotope bails in a flash. 

 

Romi's left alone in the dim, stinking apartment. Daisy stares up at her like she's supposed to have all the answers. Romi leans her head back against the crumbling wall and sighs. Perfect. Another night clocking in for the Windy City’s chrome-headed tyrant.

 

 

- (˶ T ப T˶) -

 

 

 

“Not to be making assumptions, but this place doesn’t seem very neutral,” Romi whispers to Isotope. Her voice is low, almost a pained hiss.

 

“That’s ’cause it ain’t,” Isotope replies flatly. His eyes scan the building’s front. 

 

Romi and Isotope follow behind as Machine Head strides into the restaurant. The atmosphere is electric with tension, thick as a deep dish pizza. It’s five minutes past midnight. 

 

The clink of chopsticks against porcelain bowls and the faint sizzle of stir-fried vegetables fill the heavy air. The place appears empty, save for diners hidden in corners behind bamboo screens.

 

Romi’s heart thrums with a sick and overstimulated anxiety. Too many voices are here, blurring into one and separating again abnormally. The intensity is worse than usual, like a hundred people screaming at a concert. Almost so bad she wants to stick chopsticks in her ears, scramble some brain tissue like an egg and scream. 

 

A long, lacquered wooden table dominates the centre of the room. The scratched surface gleams under the dim, moody light of red lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The smell of soy sauce and ginger hangs in the air. There’s something else, too, something almost like a reptilian stink.

 

At the far end of the table sits Mister Liu, frail and cybernetically enhanced. His impeccable tangzhuang stands out like a sore thumb amidst faded plastic menus, neon signs, and chalked daily specials. His hands are steady despite the age and metal grafted into his frame. He delicately arranges his chopsticks. His face is a grotesque amalgamation of metal and flesh and is all teeth.

 

A massive bodyguard looms beside Liu, too large to fit into any of the chairs. 

 

Machine Head stops before Mister Liu. He’s visibly out of place in his usual attire. Stark white and unnatural against the warm ambience of the restaurant. Like a masked ghost let loose on Dia de Muertos. His hands twitch by his sides before he hides them in his pockets.

 

Romi and Isotope take a seat at a nearby table. 

 

Romi can’t help herself. “If the game was ‘who’s got the biggest guy,’ Mister Liu’s already winning,” she mutters to Isotope. A nervous and pained chuckle bubbled up in her throat. “No offence.”

 

“We got big guys too, alright? They just ain’t here. Liu’s strict on numbers. No entourages. So why’d the boss pick you?” He eyes her like she's a puzzle, and he doesn’t like puzzles. “No clue what you did. Must’ve made an hell of an impression, though. Now shut up and concentrate.” 

 

But it’s impossible. The eatery is packed with too many minds, all humming with the same twitchy, restless energy. A sea of bored young men, each one convinced he’s untouchable, like he’s the only one in the room with a pulse. Romi tries to shut it out, to dull the noise inside her head. But the whole place feels like a massive ticking bomb, and she’s riding out the worst bongover of her life.

 

Romi digs her fingernails into her wrists. Closes her eyes. She doesn’t read Liu’s mind. She’s drawn into it. The moment her mind brushes his, it’s like stepping barefoot into cold water. The sensation is immediate. The world of the restaurant fades—the neon, the noise—all of it swept away in one breathless heartbeat. His thoughts don’t come in words. They arrive like brushstrokes: elegant, deliberate, eternal. Images unravel in Romi’s head like ancient scrolls unrolling.

 

A lantern sways in an alley heavy with smoke. A woman in white bows beneath a blood-red parasol. Children vanish into doorways as soldiers march past, their boots soaked in rain or maybe something darker. Jade lions weep at the steps of a temple long forgotten. A hand is severed. Calmly. With the silence of someone who’s done it many times before.

 

It’s beautiful, and it’s awful. The memories are vibrant, like patterns in silk. Every image is controlled and disciplined, with a quiet sort of grief. Romi’s breath hitches. She’s never felt anything like it. Not from anyone. She shouldn’t be able to see this. She’s standing, no, drifting, through the corridors of Liu’s mind. The scroll continues to unfurl.

 

A field of white chrysanthemums trembling in the wake of distant artillery. A table set for two, untouched, under falling ash. A young boy kneeling beside a corpse, hands folded in prayer, blood on his sleeves.

 

Liu’s memories aren’t passive. They watch her.

 

A mural pulses against a temple wall. Dragons with teeth made of blades wind through smoke and scripture. The characters shift before her eyes: power, filial piety, betrayal. The smoke curls into faces. Familiar ones. Dead ones.

 

And then, a soft snap. A thread is pulled tight around Romi’s throat. She stumbles backward, but there’s no ground, only silk. She’s falling now through layers of memory too vast to understand.

 

Tea is being poured over bones. A mouth stitched shut with red thread. Liu is young and untouched by metal, and he's pulling a man’s tongue from his mouth like a silken ribbon.

 

The mural fades. The silk burns away. And she’s somewhere else. A courtyard, endless and silent. Snow falling thick around her. A figure waits in the centre, cloaked in green and yellow. Romi can’t see its face. Its head is bowed. Its hands are folded. When it speaks, the voice is not Liu’s but something older, heavier.

 

“You see too much, little one.”

 

Romi can’t move. Her feet are buried in the snow. Her chest feels tight. Her mouth won’t open. She doesn’t want to speak. She wants to leave. She wants out.

 

The figure raises its head. It has her face.

 

“Mark these words, mortal: should you strike down the elder, I shall grant you mercy from the fire of my wrath."

 

The copy of her smiles. All teeth. Eyes red as blood.

 

Romi falls backward, screaming into her own skull, except she’s not screaming. Her voice won’t work. Her throat is full of fire. 

 

And then she’s back. She gasps. Her body jolts in the real world, hands still clenched around her wrists, aching from her own grip, but her heart is racing. Breathless. Shaking. Her eyes shoot open.

 

Isotope shoots her a full-on what the actual fuck look.

 

Liu hasn’t moved. He pours a cup of tea, serene. Glances at her once, just long enough to confirm it: he knows.

 

The boss’s voice is already glitching, warbling, frayed with rage. It’s awful. But it anchors her, drags her back to reality like a hook in the gut.

 

“What is this? A damn restaurant? What are you playing at, Liu?” 

 

“You’re late. And you’d be surprised how much business can be conducted over tea.” Mister Liu gestures to the empty seat across from him. “Sit. The food’s excellent.”

 

Machine Head’s head swivels like he's judging the table and its old blue and white china. He pulls a chair out with a screech, sits, and leans in close. “We found your boys in my territory. What’s the deal? ~”

 

Mister Liu raises an eyebrow, completely unperturbed. “You seem agitated. I expect better control from someone with your… countenance. But then again…” He glances up, his eyes locking onto Machine Head, and there’s something almost feral in them. “You’ve always had trouble with obedience, haven’t you?”

 

Machine Head draws his shoulders back. “You talk like I’m some dog on a chain. I’m not your damn dog, Liu. I run my own operations in my own city. I don’t need your men running around behind my back. You’re testing my patience. ~”

 

Mister Liu sets down his teacup with exquisite care. His voice drops an octave, becoming smoother, with a cold but contained and dangerous rage. “You misunderstand. I'm not testing your patience. I'm testing your loyalty to the Order." Mister Liu leans back, voice cooling. "And loyalty, as you know... always comes at a cost." 

 

“Loyalty?” Machine Head sneers. “You’ve got your wires crossed, Liu. I don’t need testing. You’re the big boss. I bend the knee, you tell me what to do, I do it. That’s it, that’s all. But I’m not some underling begging for scraps, either. I don’t take kindly to being disrespected in my city.” 

 

"You speak of respect. But here you are, barking in a room you were invited into.” Liu opens his mouth further. Eyes crinkling, metal jaw gleaming in the dim light. Smiling. "If I wanted a dog, Machine Head, I'd have chosen one that doesn't bite the hand." 

 

Liu picks up a dumpling with his chopsticks and inspects it before slowly, painfully placing it in his mouth. Watching him chew is almost a crime against nature. It’s slow, methodical, and excruciating to witness. 

 

Machine Head is forced to watch. 

 

Liu washes the mushy, mashed dumpling down with tea that drips from the sides of his mouth. 

 

“Tell me, Machine Head,” Liu says wetly, “how’s your supply chain these days? Still counting on your friends in Hong Kong?” 

 

Machine Head’s body is tense. “What are you getting at, Liu? You got something to tell me? Making moves behind my back? Cutting me out?”

 

Liu lowers his chopsticks. His eyes narrow, an almost imperceptible shift in his demeanour. “I'm not cutting you out. I'm counting on you. And making sure... everything is still aligned.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Shipments vanish. Allegiances shift. Accidents happen. You know how it is..”

 

Machine Head’s fists clench. “Are you threatening me?”

 

Liu graces him once more with his version of a smile. All teeth. His tone is light. But it’s not friendly. Not even close. “No threats,” he says. “Just a reminder. Power is not noise. It's pressure. Silent. Constant.” 

 

The great big bodyguard puts a hand on Machine Head’s shoulder.

 

Isotope stands. 

 

Machine Head makes a mechanised huffing sound. “You think you scare me, Liu? You think I care?” He turns to the bodyguard. “I’ll take this teapot and ~—"

 

“Careful,” Liu interrupts with his deadly calm voice. “Don't mistake my hospitality for weakness. Step too far—" Liu bares his teeth further, but his voice remains calm. "I'll bite you off at the knees.” He tilts his head. 

 

If Romi weren’t so overwhelmed, she might’ve laughed. The tiny old man with a metal mouth lectures the boss like he is a naughty kid. But then something almost miraculous happens: Machine Head shuts up and listens.

 

“Anger. A poor teacher. A worse companion." Mister Liu rises slowly. "You think you're invincible. But I've seen your kind before. Loud. Burning bright. Always burning out.” Liu stands and creeps towards the door. He glances back once, voice trailing behind him like an afterthought. “Work on it. And remember, we are always watching.” 

 

Machine Head remains motionless, eyes fixed on the door as it swings shut behind Liu and his hulking bodyguard, the soft chime barely cutting through the tension. He stays quiet for a beat, then mutters under his breath a string of curses that don’t need translating. A low, venomous growl. 

“Goddamn geriatric fuck… Thinks he can pull my strings…”

 

The whole restaurant shifts and sways like one mind, all of them the same. The young Chinese American men clear the booths and file out in perfect synchronisation. Romi stares dumbfounded. No entourages? Liu brought an army of the same man. 

 

Machine Head, his lieutenant, and his wild card are left alone in the stillness. The silence hangs heavy and oppressive. They’re all just waiting for the storm.

 

 

- (˶ T ப T˶) -

 

“Isotope, Giggles, let’s go.” 

 

The alley stinks like prawn crackers and blood and rain. Shots explode in the dark. One of the young Chinese American men gets the jump on Isotope before they can teleport out. Isotope hits the ground hard, sprawled in a pool of his own blood.  

 

Romi barely has time to process the shadows and snarling thoughts pressing in before Machine Head’s voice slices through the chaos.  

 

“Down.”

 

She hits the wet concrete. Gunfire shreds the alley, bullets shrieking past her head and sparking off the brickwork. Machine Head moves like a ghost, dragging Isotope behind a rusted dumpster. Romi scrambles and slips after them, her heart trying to punch through her ribs.  

 

“Multi-Paul,” Machine Head growls, peeking around the corner. “Cheap trick. Sloppy.” His chrome skull gleams with the rain, and his pistol’s muzzle flashes.  

 

From the far end of the alley, a second wave crashes in. Machine Head’s men are clad in body armour and masks and brandishing military-grade rifles. They move like a kill team, controlled bursts lighting up the night.  

 

"Boss?" One of them, a broad-shouldered brute with a ballistic mask, calls over the gunfire.  

 

"Handle it," Machine Head replies, voice flat.  

 

The guards don’t hesitate. A hail of bullets rips through the alley, forcing the Multi-Pauls into cover. One on the fire escape tries to take a shot too slow. A guard puts him down with a precise three-round burst. His body tumbles down the iron stairs, hitting the pavement with a wet thud.  

 

Romi presses her palms to the wet concrete, mind-stretching like a net. Thoughts slam into her, raw and violent and in pain. So many. One on the fire escape is already dead. Two flanking the alley mouth. One too close—

 

“Left!” she gasps.  

 

Machine Head pivots. The nearest Multi-Paul lunges, knife glinting. The blade scrapes across his neck plating with a screech. Machine Head catches his wrist, headbutts him with a sickening crunch, and then drops him with a swift blow to the throat. The body crumples.  Another shot. Machine Head returns fire, his silenced pistol hissing through the dark.  

 

“Movement, right side,” one of the guards barks.  

 

The muzzle flashes flare as the guards advance, their heavy boots crunching over glass and blood. A Multi-Paul or two or three drops under their fire, twitching on the pavement. A couple dash behind a dumpster, and one of the guards lobs a grenade.  Boom. Flames and shrapnel explode. Shredded corpses slump against the wall, black smoke curling into the night.  

 

Romi feels another mind rushing behind them fast.  

 

“Behind you!” 

 

Machine Head spins and fires. The Multi-Paul keeps coming, slamming into him. They grapple. Romi feels the assassin’s mind surge with adrenaline, hate, and the thrill of violence. The boss is in trouble.  There is no time to think, no time to be scared, no time to be overwhelmed. Romi pushes.  The Multi-Paul convulses, arms seizing, mouth frothing. His eyes roll back, blood dribbling from his nose as she crushes his mind. Tighter. Tighter— Bang. Blood splatters. The body slumps. Machine Head lowers his smoking pistol.  

 

“Damn, giggles." 

 

The last Paul, the only one still breathing, turns and bolts down the alley. Romi feels his agony and exhilaration, tasting it like copper on her tongue.  

 

“Let him go,” Machine Head says, voice rough but almost bored. “He likes to show off. He’s just playing. Sending Mister Liu’s friendly message.”

 

Silence falls, broken only by Isotope’s ragged breathing.  Romi holds pressure on his wound, the alley spinning around her.

 

Machine Head’s head bows down at the Multi-Paul body closest to them. It’s slack-jawed, eyes leaking blood. Then he faces her.  

 

“Huh,” he murmurs, soft and almost thoughtful, tilting his head. Then, louder and with a hint of dark amusement:

 

“Yeah. That wasn’t on your resume, was it?”

 

She’s not sure if he is pleased or not. 

 

One of the guards steps closer, rifle slung over his chest. “Orders, boss?”

 

“Clean up.” 

 

Machine Head crouches beside Romi, concealing his gun. “You’re shaking.” The heaviness of his hand on her shoulder tightens her stomach like the click of a trigger. “You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?” 

 

The alley is quiet now. The smell of gunpowder and blood hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the stink of the city.

 

Romi presses harder on Isotope’s wound, her hands slick and shaking. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache.  Romi’s breath is caught in her throat, watching Isotope's chest's slow rise and fall. Still alive. Barely.  

 

“No,” Romi says, trying to keep pressure on Isotope’s side. “Are you going to,” she pauses, “help?”

 

Machine Head tilts his head. “You seem to have things under control.”

 

She glares at him, but a guard’s already moving towards her, tugging Isotope up like a ragdoll and slinging him over his shoulder. Romi stumbles to her feet, palms raw against the rough concrete.  

 

Behind them, the rest of the guards are already handling clean-up. One of them drags a body toward the dumpster, and another flips open a burner phone. It's business as usual.  

 

Machine Head turns to her. “C’mon. Long night ahead.”

 

 

 

- (˶ T ப T˶) -

 

 

 

Intensive care’s waiting room reeks of antiseptic and burnt coffee. Romi perches on the edge of a cracked plastic chair, staring at the blood drying under her nails. Across from her, Machine Head lounges back, legs stretched out, chrome skull catching the flicker of a busted fluorescent light.

 

Isotope is in surgery. They’d dumped him at the emergency entrance. No need to slip the triage nurse cash to keep the questions to a minimum. Law enforcement’s already in the boss’s pocket.

 

During the whole ride here, Romi kept waiting for sirens or Multi-Paul’s endless parade of clones to come tearing after them. But there was nothing. Just silence and the faint, relentless hum of Machine Head’s internal mechanisms.

 

“Don’t look so glum,” he says, voice smooth as oil on rusty metal. “He’ll live. Or he won’t.”

 

Romi glances at him, her stomach knotted tight. “You could at least pretend to care.”

 

It’s strange enough that the boss stayed at all, only because she wanted to. That, in itself, feels off.

 

Machine Head tilts his head, catching the flicker of the stuttering light. “Why? Isotope knew what he signed up for.”

 

She opens her mouth, but the automatic doors hiss open, and a nurse steps out. "He’s stable. Lucky, really. A few inches to the left… Well. Someone’s watching over him.”

 

“Yeah,” Romi mutters. "Lucky."

 

 

- (˶ T ப T˶) -

 

 

They leave Isotope behind, ventilated but stable, with his furious and scantily clad “girlfriend” standing watch.

 

The ride back to Machine Head's penthouse is suffocating. Outside, the city bleeds neon. Rain streaks across the windows. Machine Head stares out, reflections skating across the cold planes of his chrome neck and skull. He doesn't look at her—not once. His fingers drum slow on his knee like he's ticking down a clock she can't see. He hasn’t said a word since they left the hospital. 

 

The elevator crawls upward, each floor adding pressure to Romi’s chest. When the doors hiss open, the penthouse office yawns before her: dark, sprawling, cold, and surgical in its cleanliness. Stormlight flickers against the glass, violently casting the skyline. 

 

Machine Head moves without urgency as he shrugs off his jacket and drops into his chair with a heavy, exhale-like hum. 

 

“Well,~” he drawls at last, voice smooth as sin like his lieutenant hadn't just taken a bullet to the chest for him. “That was a mess.” 

 

Romi scoffs. "You think?"

 

He finally looks at her, his head turning just enough for the light to catch on the sleek metal mask where a face should be.

 

“Didn't expect you to pop that little murder machine’s brain like a grape.”

 

She flinches.

 

“Relax," he murmurs. "I’m impressed.” The way he says it isn't generous. It's possessive. Hungry. “You’ve got potential. Ugly little spark under all that street scum.”

 

She doesn't answer. The air between them turns tight. He's playing with her again. She stands there, rain mixed with blood drying on her skin, sweat sticking her shirt to her ribs. The city glow casts long shadows across the floor. Her hands won't stop trembling.

 

Machine Head rises. One step, then another—slow, deliberate. His presence folds over Romi like heat. He stops in front of her, towering, silent for a moment too long. Then his head drops, like he's examining the blood on her cheap clothes. His vest and shirt are ruined. Crimson splatters the expensive fabric like spilled wine. 

 

“You’re a mess,” he remarks. His voice is low and intimate, curling around Romi like smoke. "Not in a bad way."

 

She swallows. Hard. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. Don’t you dare fucking cry. 

 

“I’ll live. Or I won’t,” Romi spits. 

 

He chuckles. Low. Metallic. A sound that prickles across her skin.

 

“Cute.” He gestures down vaguely. “Shower’s that way. You're ruining my floors.”

 

“I’d rather go home.” 

 

His voice drops a level. It’s razor-sharp now. “You don’t have a fucking home.”

 

He moves in closer, not touching her, just there.

 

“You have a roach-infested shithole that I own, by the way. Don’t you remember, giggles?"

 

The following words come slow, precise: "You have fucking nothing. You are nobody.” 

 

She stiffens, jaw clenched. 

 

He watches it all. He eats it. Then he leans in, close enough to feel the static hum of his head. His voice lowers to a growl. Synthetic venom curling around each syllable. 

 

“You don’t make the calls here, chica. You do what I say. ~ You’re nothing but a fucking commodity. Keep pushing, and you'll be chained up in the backroom of the Palace with the rest of the used toys. ~ That was your future before me. Is that what you want?”

 

The "breath" from his head is warm. It's processed and mechanical, but ghosts over her skin like heat anyway.

 

"I plucked you out of the gutter. I own you."

 

Her heart hammers. His words stick like oil. Like ash. Romi doesn't scream. She doesn't speak. She just turns, fury and shame choking her, and escapes down the elevator without looking back. His shadow stretches long behind her like he's still following. His empty gaze burns long after she disappears. 

Notes:

I added an actual setting for the Rom and Isotope study sesh. Played with Mister Liu's dialogue and mind to hopefully give the character a little more respect.

Chapter 4: brioni shower special

Romi only ever cries in the shower. 

 

The bathroom is cold opulence. Black marble counters, chrome fixtures, and floor-to-ceiling windows cut a glass edge against Chicago's neon-stained dark sprawl. The shower, a glass enclosure, stands at the centre, steam clinging, hot water battering against the obsidian tiles like relentless static, soothing white noise. 

 

She sits on the shower floor, fully clothed, knees drawn tight to her chest. Water soaks through her attire, plastering fabric to fawnskin, but she remains motionless, eyes fixed on the swirling patterns of water and diluted blood spiralling down the drain. She doesn’t know how long she’s been here. The sobbing stops. Then it starts again. A loop. A malfunction. In her mind, something whispers: get up, get up, get up, get up, get up. But she can’t, and it makes her cry harder. 

 

The faint hiss of the bathroom door sliding open barely registers over the downpour. A shadow steps inside. Machine Head. His pink-dotted metal skull catches the dim light, and fuschia LEDs flicker like gemstones in his eyes and mouth. He stands there a moment, watching. 

 

She hides her face behind her knees and waits for him to call her pathetic. Braces for it. Steels herself.

 

Instead, without a word, he steps into the shower, fully dressed, black leather shoes and all. The spray pounds against him, water sheeting off the metal and streaking through his blood-stained shirt until it clings to his slender frame. He sits beside Romi. Not close enough to touch. But close enough to unsettle. 

 

“You’re wasting water,” he remarks. Flat. A statement, an observation, not a reprimand. There’s no bite, no mockery. Voice utterly devoid of its typical sardonic edge. 

 

A weak, broken chuckle slips from Romi’s lips, surprising her. “Add it to my tab, boss.” 

 

Silence. Only water, and breath, and the faint mechanical hum of him just existing. Then, with deliberate slowness, Machine Head reaches out, fingers brushing against her still-shaking hand. Warmer than expected. 

 

She flinches but doesn’t pull away. 

 

He lifts her hand, studying the crusty fingernails and blood-smeared fingers. 

 

“It doesn’t wash off,” she murmurs. 

 

His thumb drags across her palm, smearing red. His hands are soft. He doesn’t disagree. Then, he does something strange. He lifts her fingers, tilting his head just slightly—the same way he does when he’s mocking someone or thinking about killing them. And then, he presses his mouth to them. Not a kiss. No warmth. Just cold smoothness against skin.

 

Romi’s breath hitches. Not fear. Not exactly. Just a feeling too tangled to name. She turns toward him, her gaze searching his mask of a faceplate. Trying to find the man inside the machine. 

 

"Why are you here?" she whispers.

 

Machine Head tilts his head again, pausing for half a second like he’s considering it, then he laughs, sharp and mechanical, and shrugs. "Ah, fuck if I know, giggles.”

 

Romi feels another tear slip down her cheek, mingling with the water. Without thinking, she leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder. The wet fabric sticks to her face, and underneath, she can feel the unnerving contrast, flesh and muscle, real warmth, where everything else about him is metal and cold calculation. 

 

The boss’s arm moves slowly as if it takes great effort to touch and be so close to somebody. He lets it settle around her. Not comforting. Just there. 

 

“Not bad tonight,” he says, low and placating now. “I mean that.” 

 

“I felt him die,” she murmurs, voice barely audible over the shower’s relentless noise. “In his head. Over and over.” 

 

Machine Head doesn’t react right away. When he does, his tone is neutral. “And?”

 

“It felt… easier.” 

 

There is a beat of silence. Then Romi hears it, that telltale autotuned hum of a smile.  

 

“Good.”

 

He squeezes her upper arm briefly, then shifts like he’s about to stand. “I need to get out of this shirt.”  

 

Romi freezes. But Machine Head just exhales a long-suffering, synthetic sigh.  

 

“You gonna keep drowning in here, or what? Cleanup crew’s already up to their dicks in body parts, and I don’t feel like peeling you off the floor myself. Plus, I need to do my skincare routine.” He chuckles at his little lame joke. “I’ll let you clean up. Might help if you take the clothes off first, though I get it, you’re a simple girl, giggles, basic instructions might be asking a bit much.”  

 

She huffs, half a laugh, half exhaustion at the patter. What is wrong with her? Maybe it’s relief. But is she relieved? That he’s a bastard. A big one, at that, but at least he’s consistent. That other than a little thigh rub here and a vomit-sweat wipe there, he’s not like the men she grew up knowing? He’s not like anyone she’s ever known. She doesn’t forgive him. Fuck no. But she’s—what? Pleasantly confused? 

 

“Okay, boss.” 

 

He pats her back once, awkwardly, then groans as he straightens up and steps out, dragging blood and water across the tiles. She hears wet fabric hitting the floor, followed by another long, dramatic sigh.  

 

“Housekeeping’s gonna fucking hate me.” A pause. “Well. More than usual.”  

 

She bites her lip. The boss is not even that fucking funny. But the autotune makes it worse, especially when he’s yelling over the shower noise, warping his voice as he goes on to complain about dry cleaning. Then he makes a dramatic show of looking back at her. 

 

Her mouth twitches. She is a wreck, with soaked hair, panda eyes, and blood redrying in crusted lines down her arms. A sewer rat in a cheap, ruined outfit. And yet, she’s smiling. What the fuck is wrong with her? 

 

Machine Head notices with a smiling hum of his own. Of course, he does.  

 

“Why do you wear white, boss?” she asks. “That’s your first mistake.”  

 

He makes a snorting noise. Romi’s surprised he can hear over the water. “I don’t make mistakes.” Then, without missing a beat, “White’s my colour. Unlike you, looking like your abuela died every fucking day.” 

 

She chokes.

 

“Shit. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

 

“They’re all dead.” She starts laughing. Hysterically. Fuck. 

 

Machine Head makes a sound, something between amusement and approval. “Good for you. Less drama that way. No weakness. No liabilities. No trouble.”

 

She shivers. It’s suddenly too cold. All the laughter dies in her throat. She hears the squelch of more fabric peeled away. A heavy, wet plop. She does not look up. 

 

A disgusted noise. “Fucking hate wet socks.” 

 

Out of the corner of her eye, his feet are feet. Like actual man’s feet. A little bit of dark hair. A sandal tan. She’s thrown. Then, oh, the tie. A wet, pink, and ruined mess is tossed onto the floor. 

 

Romi’s gaze flickers up to the shower glass, blurred by steam. But through it, she can see. She can see where flesh meets metal, where skin has been cut and welded, stretched and burned.

 

Machine Head peels his shirt off, unbothered, like this is normal. Like he’s not a walking blueprint of violence and what it takes to survive. 

 

She stares. Call it morbid curiosity. So, the boss is human? Or he was? She’s not sure if it matters. Her stomach twists, and she forces herself to look away. Wiggles her bare toes against the tiles. Focuses on something, anything else, to get rid of the faintness.

 

“Doing okay in there, chica?” he calls. “Need a step-by-step guide? I figured undressing would be second nature by now. You've had plenty of practice, right?" 

 

Her cheeks burn. She clenches her jaw, ignoring the sound of him scrubbing blood off his hands in the sink, so indifferent to it. 

 

Then, with that smooth synthetic speech, he adds, casual as ever, “Oh, lo siento, baby girl. Am I being mean?” A distorted chuckle. He’s not sorry. “Don’t worry. I’ll be done soon.”

 

She glimpses at him in the mirror, catching his reflection as he works fragrant oil over his metallic skull. The scent drifts over. Shining, shining, shining. She shivers. Nauseated. Hyperaware of Machine Head in a way she can’t admit. And then, without thinking, she stands and begins to strip off her own wet clothes. She doesn’t know why she doesn’t wait. Maybe to prove something. That she’s not afraid, she can also play the game, even if her hands still tremble. Maybe she just wants to see what he does next. 

 

“What? You’ve got a chrome kink now?” His voice is a pure electronic purr. Head tilted in her direction, hands braced against the sink, gripping. Soft hands. Too soft. “If you wanted to fuck me, giggles, you should’ve just said so ~.” 

 

In your dreams, asshole. That’s what Romi should say, what she wants to say. But she doesn’t. And she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t fold her arms over herself, even though she should. She’s only wearing a lacy black cami and underwear, nothing else. Her nipples pebble through the sheer, wet material. Her thighs squeeze together, tight, tight, tight. She should. But she doesn’t. 

 

He steps closer, pushes the door open, tilts his head, oiled chrome catching the dim light, scanning her from feet to face like he’s running diagnostics. 

 

“You’re still shaking,” he repeats. Not a question. An observation. A calculation. 

 

His fingers trace down her wet upper arm, not gently, just testing. Watching her like an experiment. 

 

Romi doesn’t pull away. Not exactly. Maybe she’s been holding it in too long: the anger, the confusion, the fact that she doesn’t hate him as much as she fucking should. She shoves him. The boss. It’s weak. Pathetic. He barely moves. But she did it.

 

“Don’t pretend you care. You don’t get to.”

 

He laughs. Not offended. Not angry. Just fucking amused. 

 

“Oh ~, do you think I’d pretend? For a bottom-feeder like you?” His head tilts. “That’s adorable, giggles.”

 

She shoves him again. Harder.

 

“My name is Romina,” she snaps, voice sharp and breathless. “And I saved your life tonight. You should fucking thank me.”

 

What is wrong with her?

 

His hand snaps around her wrist before she can do it again. Firm. Not restraining. Just daring her. She almost slips. But his grip keeps her upright. He is leaning over her now. His face plate is too close. Unmoving, unfeeling metal lips, fixed in that little mocking smug fucking smile. 

 

“I don’t care what you’re called,” he says, voice smooth. “I told you, giggles. You’re nothing. Nobody. ~” The words roll out heavy, harmonic, and final.

 

“The only thing you are is mine.” His fingers tighten. Not enough to hurt, yet. Just enough to make her feel it. “I own you. How many times do I have to—"

 

Goosebumps rise along her skin. Not from the cold. Not from fear. Something else. Something worse. She is his. The realisation slams into her, locking into place like a loaded chamber. A sensation unfurls in the pit of her stomach. It’s dark, twisted, wrong. Excitement. It coils low and tight, slithering up her spine, making her breath hitch and her toes curl painfully against the wet tile. What the fuck.

 

Romi snaps. Maybe she hates him. Maybe she hates herself. Maybe she grabs his shoulder, closes the minute distance, and kisses him hard against his flat metal mouth like she’s picking a fight. 

 

Machine Head doesn’t pull away. His fingers tighten hard enough to bruise. Then he laughs, and his voice is breathless, giddy, grinning. How can he sound so real and so fake? The noise vibrates against her lips. 

 

“That’s all you got? Hate to break it to you, but I can’t feel it. Does nothing for me.” A pause, then, mocking, syrupy-sweet, “Sweet, though. You get cuter by the minute, giggles.”

 

She drops and sinks her teeth into his scarred clavicle. She bites hard. Means it. But the thickened tissue doesn’t break. 

 

His hand clamps onto the back of her neck. Not stopping her. Just holding her there. Then, she’s shoved roughly back against the glass. A cold and painful shock up her spine. The boss’s grip presses in. Not cruel, but rough and measured. Testing her. She’s sure he’s waiting to see if she’ll flinch. 

 

She doesn’t. 

 

His hands slide up under her singlet. Not delicate. Just curious. Tracing scars, new bruises, old wounds. Mapping her. 

 

“You heal ugly.” 

 

She breathes out a laugh. “So do you.” 

 

One of his hands curves around her throat. Just resting there. Not squeezing. Feeling the pulse. 

 

Romi doesn’t stop him. She freezes. Maybe it’s her past. Maybe it’s the realisation she doesn’t want him to stop. Both options are terrifying. 

 

Machine Head notices. Of course, he does. He’s a bastard. But he’s not clueless. He could push. He doesn’t. Instead, he leans in, so close his vocal interface murmurs in her ear.

 

“Having second thoughts?”

 

She nods. Barely. 

 

He lets go. Steps back just enough. Like it’s a choice. 

 

She stands there. Near naked, wet, dumbfounded. Staring. No coherent thought. She should be worried. She should be looking for a way out. She could kill his guards. If only she could work out how to channel that energy. Escape this building. She needs to. Otherwise, she’ll end up like Isotope. A caged bird trapped by her usefulness. Discarded like cheap—

 

But her mind doesn’t go there. No. The only thing occupying her thoughts is Machine Head’s chest. Naked, wet, scarred, fused to his alloy neck. On full display. He’s still wearing his bloodied white suit pants. And that’s it. She doesn’t let her eyes focus lower.

 

The room feels different now. Everything stops. Tension settles thick, heavy. And the boss makes it obvious. Moving his head. Looking her up and down. Slow. Intentional. Completely unnecessary. It burns. It’s exhilarating.

 

Shit. Oh god--

 

“Quit fucking around, you little freak. Get on your knees. ~” 

 

Her brain shuts off at the command. All she needed was a little push. She moves before she can stop herself. Pulse hammering. Knees hitting the tiles. She looks up. Magenta eyes locked on her. Unrelenting. Lifeless. But she feels them. Feels the weight of his stare like a brand against her skin.

 

"Take off my pants." 

 

What the fuck is she doing? Why is she doing this? And why, for fuck’s sake, does she feel a sharp rush of excitement when she places trembling fingers on his waistband? Her teeth sink into her lip. Hard. 

 

Machine Head watches. Expression is unreadable. Mind unreadable. Always unreadable. 

 

Romi shouldn’t want this. She knows what the boss is. A mobster. A murderer. A monster. But so are you, that voice whispers. And it’s been whispering for a long time. She doesn’t listen to it. Not ever. But her blood is boiling now. She can’t fight it. The urge is too strong. Her muscles loosen. Her body temperature spikes. At once, the tremors in her hands still. Resolve locks into place. She pulls down his zipper. She’s pressing her thighs tight together once more. The voice in her head fades to static. The self-hatred grows quieter. Her fingers hook under his waistband, then stop. 

 

His hand is on her chin. Pulling her up.

 

Romi halts but doesn’t break contact. Her palms still press against the warm skin of his abdomen, against the dark dusting of hair below his navel. Her nails dig in. Unconscious. Instinctual.

 

“That’s enough.” His voice is rough and low. A distant thunder rolling through static.

 

He is a bastard. But he is thrilling. Parts of Rom feel more alive than ever. Parts of her she’d thought she’d buried. Parts of her she’s afraid of. Machine Head is worse than her. He kills for pleasure and personal gain, and most of the time, he doesn’t even bother to get his hands dirty. She only ever killed for her family to survive. 

 

“Take your clothes off and get back under the water, giggles.” His hands pry hers away from him. A deliberate act of control.

 

She lets go. Slowly. Rises to her feet. Holds his gaze. She avoids eye contact with people. There’s nothing more uncomfortable when you can hear their thoughts. But with him? With him, it’s different. 

 

“I told you already,” she mutters. “I have a name.” 

 

Why is she like this? This man runs a crime syndicate. A protection racket. He extorts. He bribes. He controls. He murders, tortures, and orchestrates hits. He trafficks weapons and tech and drugs and people. He profits from human suffering. The tiles beneath their feet are not just smeared with blood. They are paid for with it. And yet here Romi is, having a verbal standoff with him in his goddamn bathroom, over a cutesie nickname.

 

Machine Head makes a teeth-clicking sound in annoyance. It’s funny because he doesn’t even have a tongue, or teeth for that matter. Then, suddenly, a shove. Hard. Unceremonious.

 

“Go,” he says. “Before I take a knife and cut you out of those little panties myself.”

 

A shiver rips down her spine. Romi turns her back on the boss so he can’t see how her face heats. Her movements are quick and jerky. Clothes peeled off. No slow Popsicle Palace lingering striptease. The water is scalding. It hits Romi’s bare skin, her nipples hardening instantly. Being naked never bothered her. She let go of that a long time ago. But now? Now, she wants to cover herself. Her arms cross over her chest. Fingers digging into her arms.

 

Behind her, rustling fabric. Clothes shifting. Then, footsteps. Naked feet against wet tile. Heat presses against her back. So close, too close. The fine hairs on her arms and neck rise. She can feel his front ghost over parts of her lower back.

 

“You're a strange little thing,” Machine Head murmurs, voice crackling. 

 

Romi stays quiet. There's nothing to say. 

 

Then, fingers. Soft. Tracing the lines of Romi’s arms and shoulders. The touch unsettles her more than any threat ever could.  

 

“You don’t do this with other women?” she asks. Coy. Deflecting. 

 

A low, unnatural chuckle rumbles from his head. Like something being chewed up inside him.  

 

"Yeah, I fuck. But women, and men, too, always want something. Mostly money." There's an edge to his tone. Something sharp, bitter.  

 

"I don’t know what you want," he muses. His hands keep moving. Up Romi’s arms. Over her shoulders. Down her ribs. A slow, deliberate exploration. “How old are you, chica?” 

 

Romi turns in his arms. She does not touch him. Does not drop his gaze. Tilts her head like she's studying a loaded gun. 

 

“Old enough, boss.” 

 

He hums. Amused. “Old enough to die. Old enough to be stupid." A pause. Then, lower. Darker. "Old enough to fall in love.”

 

The words hit like a punch to the throat. The effect is violent.  

 

“I don’t—” The words die—

 

Machine Head grabs her. Jaw. Waist. And crowds her against the glass. No escape. Nowhere to go. His face presses to hers. A cruel mockery of a kiss. A sad imitation. 

 

Romi doesn’t pull away. Her lips part, teeth scraping against metal. Her tongue flicks over the cold, wet plate of Machine Head’s mouth. She tastes oil. A feral hunger claws its way up her ribs. Her back arches into a perfect bow. Bare chest flush against him. Her body fits against him like a puzzle piece. Her nails rake his shoulders. Trace the hard lines of his back. 

 

Machine Head groans. Roughly angles her head to rest his cold face against her neck. His grip tightens. She gasps into him, nails digging in to keep from slipping. She doesn’t care, not even a little, as she presses her lips to the base of his neck, where metal meets flesh, tongue tracing the seam between man and machine. She licks, nibbles, and tastes salt and steel. She hears fans begin to whirr. His actual breath comes rough and uneven, filtering through the air vent at the base of his throat, usually hidden beneath his collar and tie. Should she be disturbed? Disgusted? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t stop.

 

“Yeah. Yeah. That’s nice.” His praise is low. Gravelled static. 

 

It makes her knees weak. She pulls back. Tries to breathe. Machine Head’s mask-like faceplate is inches from Romi’s face. And she is reminded, again, of how wrong this is. 

 

“You’re a psychopath.” 

 

His fingers press into her waist. Not hard. Just enough. Then, her soft stomach makes contact with the hardness of his erection. 

 

Her breath hitches. She stiffens. Romi’s hands fly to the boss’s chest. His hair curls wet in dark swirls against her fingertips. She shouldn’t, but she runs her fingers through it.  

 

He doesn’t look offended by Romi calling him mentally deranged. Quite the opposite. He hums. “And you still wanna fuck me, giggles.” 

 

Her face flares. A hot mix of anger and embarrassment. Because fuck, Machine Head’s right. 

 

“Am I wrong?” He leans back. Looks down on her. Waiting. 

 

He wants her to admit it. Once she does, she won’t be able to take it back or pretend. The boss wants Romi’s verbal surrender. 

 

Outrage explodes in her chest. Yeah, she might not be right in the head. But at least she’s not like him. At least she’s not a fucking sick prick who’ll let people burn alive and murder innocents for fun.

 

“Yes.” So fucking wrong. 

 

Then, her mouth crashes against the U of his. A desperate attempt to shut him and his autotuned nonsense up. A desperate attempt to satisfy the hunger clawing inside her. 

 

Machine Head laughs. The synthetic sound vibrates against her lips. His hands start to roam. Over her ribs, breasts and ass, massaging and kneading and teasing. Fueling a fire burning in her core. But never touching where she needs him to. It’s infuriating. 

 

She drops her head and sinks her teeth into his nipple, biting down hard enough to draw blood. Spite fuels her more than desire, and it isn’t about pleasure. It’s about how far she can push.

 

The answer comes fast. Machine Head’s palm collides with the side of Romi’s face, snapping her head to the side. Before she can react, he shoves her forward, pressing her skull against the cold glass. Pain blooms across her cheekbone, sharp and stinging. And yet, she grins. Her eyes flick to the smear of blood on his chest before trailing up to his blank, unfeeling mask. Then, deliberately, she swipes her tongue over her lips, licking the taste of him away. 

 

“You missed a spot,” she taunts. 

 

Machine Head’s response is immediate. He spins her, slamming her bare front against the glass this time, his hand splayed hard between her shoulder blades. The pressure makes her wince, bending to his will.

 

“Giggles,” he drawls, voice thick with something dangerous. “As much as I enjoy your loose mouth and absolute lack of self-preservation, you always seem to forget your place.”

 

Oh, he’s pissed. There is no need to see a face or hear thoughts to feel it. Delicious.  

 

“Show me then, boss,” she grits out, quiet, throwing a look over her shoulder, her palms flattening against the glass as she strains to push back. Romi needs this. Needs anything but numbness. Anything but the apathy that defines her miserable existence. 

 

Machine Head delivers. The sharp crack of his hand striking her ass rings through the enclosed space, sending a shock of pain up her spine. Her body jerks, a hiss slipping past her lips. It hurts. But not as much as it could. Should. Not as much as Rom’s endured before. The thought makes her laugh. The sound bubbles up uncontrollably. She giggles low and breathless as hot water needles over her stinging skin. If the boss thinks a few slaps are gonna break her, he’s in for a long fucking night. He doesn’t seem put off by her laughter. If he’s annoyed, he doesn’t vocalise it. Machine Head has a notoriously short fuse, but right now, he’s waiting. Watching. 

 

“You have soft hands, boss.” Her voice is syrupy with amusement as she arches her back again, inviting, taunting. Romi is insane. Shit. Maybe he was right about that lack of self-preservation or whatever he said.

 

The boss’s hand vanishes from between her shoulders. It wraps around the back of her neck. His fingers curl on the front of her throat, where he begins to exert pressure. Cutting off the air and blood supply at the same time. Her head swims. Black spots gnaw at the corners of her vision. 

 

“Listen here. Unless you want me to ~cut off your head and fuck the hole left in your bloody throat, ~ I suggest you keep that pretty, fleshy mouth of yours shut and behave.”

 

Even if she knew what to say, she couldn’t, not with his fingers crushing her windpipe. A strangled, wet gargle is all she manages.

 

“This—“ The boss punctuates his words with another sharp slap to her already-bruising ass, making her jolt. “This body,” he continues, voice laced with that dark amusement, “is mine. Mine.” His fingers dig into her flesh possessively. “I own you. Get that through your thick skull.”  

 

She mewls and shivers as his touch shifts from brutal to almost tender. His fingers ghost over the raw, burning skin he just struck. His voice is eerie, calm, matter-of-fact, and far too composed.  Belonging to someone doesn’t rattle her. It’s been that way for as long as she can remember. But everything inside her still riots at the thought of belonging to him that way. Her nails and fingers scrape against the wet, cold glass. It makes a terrible sound as she grinds her molars, torn between fury and panic at the creeping fog of unconsciousness. 

 

The pressure around her throat finally eases a little, and she sucks in a ragged, desperate breath. The relief is fleeting. Machine Head isn’t done. 

 

“And this—"

 

She braces for impact, yet she is hopelessly unprepared for the wave of pleasure crashing through her as the boss’s hand connects with the throbbing and swollen flesh between her legs. Her moan is violent, raw, guttural, more animal than human. In another reality, she’d be mortified. Horrified by the sound, by the sheer humiliation of knowing he dragged it out of her. But rationality has long since abandoned her. Drowned beneath the twisted gravity that pulls her back to him. This bubble they exist in, this sick, volatile push and pull of desire and destruction, has swallowed everything else.

 

“~ —I own this wet little cunt too. ~” 

 

He steps closer, leaning over so his speech module whispers filth into her ear. The music of it makes her shiver and tremble as he strokes the soft folds around her entrance with one finger. He explores the feel of her. Circles lazily around her clit and smears the moisture leaking from her hole. 

 

Her eyes cross. Her vision blurs. Romi arches into the boss. Greedily gulping in the air like it might save her. His name tumbles from her lips in a breathless, broken whimper. She realises she’s said the moniker when she feels the cold press of metal against her ear. In another life, another world, she’d recoil in shame. But here? Here, nothing fucking matters. 

 

“~ I’ll fuck that beautiful cunt until it’s raw and bloody, giggles. Until you beg me to stop. ~” 

 

Another stroke through her slit. Another shiver that almost sends her knees buckling. It’s too much, too much! And not enough at the same time, the slow circles he draws around her clit. 

 

“And then I’ll fuck it some more.” 

 

Copper and salt on her tongue as her bottom lip succumbs to her teeth. Her whole body thrums with need, begging to be bent and held and fucked. 

 

But the boss doesn’t relent. A slap directly aimed at her pussy erupts pleasure and pain in her core. The absolute throb overwhelms all of her senses. Her knees buckle. 

 

His voice cuts through the fog in her head, synthetic, rough, and grating, like a malfunctioning machine trying to sound human. “Now. Wash. Your. Self.” 

 

Each syllable drops like a command, deliberate and final. One last shove against the wall, and then the warmth of Machine Head’s body and the contrasting coolness of his face is gone.  

 

She gasps, sucking in air. Accidentally swallows the water running down her face. She chokes and sputters but does not fall. Small victories. Her head is blissfully empty for one moment, but reality slams back in as she tries to gather her thoughts. Shit. This is spiralling fast. Faster than she can control. She must keep her head straight and play it smart to escape him. Whatever this is, it proves just how terrifying his effect on her is. And worse? How easily she lets it happen. 

 

When she finally forces herself to turn, she’s met with the sight of Machine Head washing himself, calm, completely unfazed. The soap lathers over his scarred torso, slipping down the ridges of lean muscle, over the tubing embedded in his upper abdomen. A reminder of what he is. What he’s survived. 

 

She forces herself to focus on the smell instead. Fresh. Citrus. Woodsy. Expensive as hell. Probably costs more than what she spent feeding herself for six months. Figures even his block of soap was worth more than her. 

 

Fuck. Don’t look at the boss’s cock. She looks at it. Damn. It’s big even while half hard, with neatly trimmed dark hair at the base stretching up into that trail below his navel. Romi swallows. Watches the trails of soapy water run down his crotch and length. 

 

The boss hums, amused, but lifts a hand in silent expectation. 

 

Right. The boss told her to wash. 

 

She grabs a bottle of body wash and lathers up, the scent hitting her immediately. Rich, deep, amber, leather, vanilla. It’s his scent. His cologne. She smells like him now. The realisation makes her stomach twist. She scrubs harder, trying to erase the blood and grime clinging to her skin. Blood. The blood of the man she helped kill tonight. And the blood of Machine Head’s lieutenant, the one he couldn’t care less about. Her gut churns. She is standing here in the shower of a crime lord, scrubbing away someone else’s blood, and all she can think about is how good he smells. And not just lusting after—

 

She cuts that thought off and shakes her head. Guilt claws at the edge of her consciousness, but it won’t change a damn thing. 

 

She can't find shampoo, so she rinses her hair with water, running her fingers through the tangled, curling strands to remove knots. 

 

Fuck. She should be appalled. Her whole life, she’s been treated like property, passed around, controlled, used. So why the hell is she turned on by the very thing she’s fought against for years?  Maybe it's because Machine Head makes sense. She hates him. She wants him. Repulsed yet drawn in. He is violent, ruthless, and brutally honest in his own warped way. Letting him touch her, it feels like her choice. Like she’s choosing her own self-destruction.

 

Taken out like trash. The thought lingers, cold and unsettling.

 

When she looks up, she catches him watching. Or at least, she thinks he is, hard to tell without a face. It’s a harsh reminder that she’s slipping. Machine Head could kill her whenever he wants. Her powers are unpredictable, and to him, she’s nothing more than a temporary amusement. Expendable. He’s reminded her of that enough. She needs a plan.

 

Machine Head likes control. He’s testing her, toying with her, pushing to see how far she’ll bend before she snaps. Yet he lets her get away with so much, maybe because it amuses him. Maybe because breaking her will be that much sweeter. She won’t give him that satisfaction.

 

Lucky for her, he seems almost fascinated by her disconnect from reality. She’s afraid, sure, but she always laughs in the face of danger. Because if she takes any of this too seriously, if she lets herself feel, it'll actually hurt.

 

Right now, she’s his plaything. She just has to make sure the game doesn’t swallow her whole first. Her core clenches. Fuck. She’s a lost cause. But at least, for the moment, that works in her favor. Might as well embrace the abyss. This is her life now. This is what she’s gotta do.

 

Chapter 5: i sold my soul to a three-piece

The water shuts off abruptly. There’s a finality to it, leaving only the echo-like sound of dripping water, the weight of Machine Head’s presence, and what happens next.

 

The boss exits the shower without a word, grabbing a nearby towel. Romi wrings out her hair and follows, only to have a towel flung straight at her face. Lovely. 

 

"Thanks," she says, voice sharp as she yanks it off her head and starts drying herself.  

 

"Hey!—”

 

She barely towels her hair off before she's lifted clean off the floor. She squeals as the boss grabs her thighs and tosses her over his shoulder. She squirms, fists beating against his scarred back.

 

“Fucking put me down!" 

Machine Head just laughs. Thank God. She'd rather not have him cut her head off and—

The storm is raging outside. Rain is sheeting down the glass, and the sound is tremendous. 

Dangling upside down, she tries to get her bearings as he strides around the lower level of the penthouse. Eventually, she gives up and closes her eyes. What's the point? She's exhausted. 

 

The boss stops. His body tenses. 

 

"Oh, fuck me," he mutters. "I don't usually bring anyone in here. Didn't plan on company—“

 

Hanging like a human bat, Romi struggles to make sense of the dimly lit room. It’s a grand, luxurious suite but cluttered with medical equipment. An IV pole stands nearby, a bag of something resembling chocolate milk hanging from a hook. A ventilator hums quietly, accompanied by a smaller breathing machine filled with fluid, like the ones pharmacies sell for snoring. Other unrecognisable devices sit scattered around, sleek and futuristic. The setup isn’t all that different from the room where they left Isotope. It’s just more space-age, more imposing.

 

She tunes back into what the boss is saying—

 

"Usually, I just—use the desk."

 

Of course he does. 

“Wipes clean. Ergonomic.” He’s still muttering. 

 

“It's fine," she says because, apparently, she's taking up reassuring sadistic kingpins as a new hobby.

 

Blood rushes to her head, making her dizzy.

 

"It is a nice desk, though." A little nervous laugh escapes her.  

 

“Fuck it.” He drops her onto the mattress. It’s rough and unceremonious. No thanks in it. 

 

She barely has a second to recover before he moves her again, adjusting her like furniture. He lines the back of her head up with the mattress's edge. 

 

Romi's dark eyes flick up onto his naked form. Confusion flickers in them. What the fuck is he doing now? 

 

"Since you run your mouth so much," he says, stepping closer to the bed, his form casting her in shadow, "figure I’d put it to better use.”

 

Realisation slams into her like a train on the L. Her gaze flickers up to the growing erection between his thighs. 

 

"Open." 

 

Her lips snap shut in defiance, pressing into a firm, bloodless line. She did not picture it like this. Flat on her back, head at the mattress edge, the vulnerable angle sends a ripple of unease. She hates it.

 

The boss makes that artificial tongue-clicking noise. His hand locks around her dainty neck, fingers pressing with calculated pressure as he tilts her head. Her head falls off the side of the bed, her throat stretching into a straight line.

 

The open-mouthed gasp escaping her mouth is her undoing. The head of the boss's cock breaches her lips. The force sends her hands clawing out at the bedsheet for support. She sputters around the intrusion. Her jaw opens on instinct as she gasps for breath around it. 

 

"~ Watch your teeth, chica, or I’m bringing out the pliers. I’ll pop those molars like soda tabs, one by one. ~"

 

The threat is enough to widen her mouth, allowing him to penetrate deeper as he shoves his length straight into the back of her throat. Saliva pools in her mouth, and she flattens her tongue against the underside of his cock, careful to keep her teeth to herself as he slowly begins thrusting. 

 

A distorted groan crackles from above, synthetic and guttural. 

 

Romi can't see much from this angle, but her hands press against the boss's thighs, feeling the way his muscles shift, coiled tight beneath his overheated, still-damp skin.

 

The grip around her throat tightens, not enough to choke, just enough to remind her who's in control. Her back arches, heels digging into the sheets as she fights for balance.

 

A chuckle, cold and amused. Then, Machine Head's electronic voice:

 

"C'mon, giggles. Stretch that pretty mouth. You can do better."

 

She whines around his length, squeezing her eyes shut and forcing herself to breathe as she obeys. Hollowing her cheeks. Opening wider. 

 

A synthetic grunt from above warped through the modulator. A sick kind of approval as Machine Head angles his hips to slide his cock deeper with his next thrust. 

 

Spit pools at the corners of her lips, but she's past caring. She is too focused on massaging her tongue against his hardness to notice. Her blood heats as the realisation sinks in. The boss is enjoying this. He is even more vocal than she expected him to be. Every flick of her tongue, every squeeze of her throat, is met with a glitched-out, stuttering noise of pleasure. A rough, distorted vibration that shouldn't make Romi’s pulse hammer, but fuck, it does. The thought makes her reckless. Desperate. Before she knows it, she's pushing herself further, relaxing her jaw, loosening her throat, coaxing the boss's cock deeper like it's instinct. Like her body already knows its purpose.

 

Above her, Machine Head chuckles, a sharp, synthetic burst of static.

 

"Atta girl." His voice is a distorted purr. "Knew you'd catch on. Fuck, yes—“ he moans, tone full of praise.

 

She savours it almost as much as she savours his clean taste. He hardens more in her mouth, like steel wrapped in velvet. The boss's head hits the far back of her throat, and she swallows to stop gagging. It's rough and uncomfortable, but she pushes through. With a final deep breath, she arches, angles, and leans into him, her small hands slipping around to urge him forward. 

Machine Head breaches her throat with his cock, and pistons his hips forward with a hard thrust. Too eager. His entire length slides in, all the way, until his balls press flush against the bridge of her nose. 

Romi’s throat burns. A deep, bruising ache pulses at the base of her neck, tight and strained. Her jaw trembles, already sore from being forced open too long, the lingering sting creeping down to her collarbone like a slow, smouldering fire. She's choking and gagging around him, trying to swallow, trying to breathe. But her airways are cut off entirely. Her fingernails dig into his sides and back, tearing bloody valleys as her legs kick, scrambling for support, feeling panicked. 

Machine Head doesn't give a fuck. His hand tightens around her throat, holding her in place. He voices a long-winded, coarse warbling groan. The sound of his voice has her nipples rock hard and her pussy throbbing even though she cannot breathe. 

"~ I can feel myself in your throat, fuck—" he swears, voice warped, every syllable drawn out and distorted. "Fuck!—look at you. Beautiful. All mine.~”

 

The grip on her throat eases just enough for his fingers to trace the obscene bulge in her neck, a slow, deliberate glide over the stretched, struggling flesh.

 

She kicks weakly beneath him, vision spotting, the pressure in her skull mounting, tears welling and spilling before she can even stop them. Pathetic. Beautiful. His.

 

The boss begins to thrust shallowly, but it still feels like her throat is being turned inside out, raw and unforgiving. The gagging comes in relentless waves, each stronger than the last.

 

Above it all, his warped, synthetic moans of pleasure drown out the wet, ugly sounds of her struggle. Her eyes squeeze shut, but it doesn’t matter. Her head swims in the encroaching darkness, oxygen slipping away. 

 

Right when she's sure she'll either blackout or vomit, Machine Head pulls out. She shoots upright, coughing and retching, spit dripping onto her trembling thighs. Air rips into her lungs like fire. Every inhale burns. Each swallow is a fresh knife slicing down her oesophagus. Her heart thunders so loud she's afraid it'll crack ribs. But beneath the raw agony, something deeper hums, something electric. Like the brush with danger only winds Romi tighter, sets her nerves ablaze. 

 

“You think we’re done?” Machine Head calls from behind, half-laughing, his voice chewing through her skull.

 

Before she can react, his fingers twist into her hair, a tangled and damp mess. The yank is brutal, damn near tearing her scalp from her skull as he wrenches her back into place.  Her wide eyes flick up to him. She's face to face with his straining cock a second time, covered in glistening spit. 

 

"C'mon, you know the drill," he taunts, smacking her flushed cheek with sharp, stinging taps like he’s playing with his food.   

 

She does know. And knowing makes it easier. The uncertainty with Machine Head gets to her. Her breath steadies. The panic slides away, leaving something colder, sharper in its place. Her resignation: that’s what gets him excited. She can tell by the pleased hum rattling through his modulator and how his grip tightens. Sick bastard.  

 

"Go fuck yourself," she rasps, voice so raw it barely registers as her own. But her mouth stretches into a grin up at the boss, wide and sharp, before she sticks her tongue out.  

 

She doesn’t need to see a face or hear thoughts to know he’s pleased.  Machine Head fingers skim her cheek, her jaw. It’s almost gentle. Almost. A caress that promises ruin. He brings his slicked cock back to her lips. She sucks in a breath and braces before he pushes inside. He slips down her throat easier this time.

 

Her hands press against him, steadying herself, her fingers flexing against twitching muscle as she urges him forward, sucking and swallowing around him. 

 

The boss warbles with praise, no snide insults, no smug bastard remarks. He starts thrusting, slow but with intent and forceful enough to cause a wet smacking sound every time his balls hit her face. She moans around his length. 

 

Machine Head's even graceful enough to grant her a few deep gulps of breath from time to time. Not when she needs it, of course, but when he feels like it. 

 

They find a rhythm. It works. Until it doesn’t. Something shifts, splinters, and Romi loses composure. Machine Head notices. He leans in and over, pressing himself deeper, his hands on her. Kneading her small tits with one hand, his other on her pussy, tracing two fingers through her slit. She tenses as her legs fall open, instinct overruling thought. 

 

"Feel that, chica?" His voice buzzed above her, dark amusement laced through a synthetic chirp. Never ceasing his thrusting as he circles the moisture leaking from her hole. "Oh, you’re so wet just from me fucking your throat.”

 

She knows. She can feel it. Feel how her slick runs down her ass, seeping into the sheet below, more and more with every forceful thrust, every ounce of degradation.

 

"Does it turn you on that much?” He already knows the answer. Of course it does. He punctuates his arrogance by forcing two fingers into her pussy, all the way until his knuckles press flush against her heated, soaked flesh. 

 

Her back arches like a live wire—and the fervent sounds rumbling out of her are involuntary.

 

Machine Head, the opportunist, pushes his cock deeper.

 

Spit leaks from the corners of her mouth in glistening rivulets, but the humiliation barely registers. Too much is happening at once, Machine Head’s hands, his voice, his cock in her mouth, his fingers thrusting in and out of her cunt. 

 

The boss continues kneading her breasts, tugging and pinching the sensitive peaks. His skilled fingers, dripping with her arousal, pull out before drawing tight circles right around her clit.

 

Machine Head pulls out of her mouth, a string of spit still connecting him to her swollen lips, and she lets out breathless, desperate, filthy little noises from the onslaught of pleasure at the apex of her thighs. How the fuck does he know exactly where to touch her? It’s like he’d mapped every nerve ending and every weakness—like he’d done this a thousand times before. And maybe he has. Maybe that’s what makes it worse. She can't do anything to stop the tension from building in her core. 

 

"That's a nice voice you've got there, giggles," he muses. "Too bad I like your mouth better full." 

 

And with those words, he pushes her head back down and his cock back in. Not even gagging can stop the boss. He increases the pace to punishing. 

 

The shame is unbearable. The sounds Romi makes as he fucks both holes over and over again. He thrives on it. He's losing his grip, and his fingers twitch, fighting the urge to bend and break. She can hear him. 

 

He lands some slaps on her cunt, a wet smacking sound echoing louder than his autotuned groans of pleasure. The sharp sting of pain sends her legs skittering across the sheets before locking straight, toes curling and uncurling with each circle drawn around her swollen, sensitive clit.

 

Every muscle tenses like a wire about to snap.  

 

"Are you gonna cum for me? So weak. So fucking pathetic." A breathy, glitched-out groan. "You want me to own you, don’t you? You want to be my little fuckpet."  

 

Her eyes cross as the pleasure wrecks her body. It’s sick, and she wishes Machine Head would shut the fuck up. But the boss knows, he knows, how badly she’s trying to tune him out, to forget who he is, and he’s determined to carve himself into her mind.  It’s horrible. It’s ecstatic. Romi rocks her hips against his hand like a woman possessed. Seeking more. Begging for release. 

 

The boss doesn’t fare better. His thrusts are erratic. He’s not letting her breathe. Her nails dig into his hips, hard enough to bruise. She wants him to know. She wants him to realise. He knows. He just doesn’t care. Not when he’s so close. His attention to her clit is lethal in precision.

 

Her suffocating sounds ring louder in her ears. Her body trembles pushed past the threshold of control. Her mind empties. There’s no holding it back anymore. He’s making her cum. This psychotic, murdering, sadistic, megalomaniac asshole is making her cum. Whether she wants it or not, it’s happening. 

 

“Shit—fuck—are you cumming? I can feel how much you’re shaking.” His voice is ragged, desperate. “Do it, giggles. Do it for me, you filthy fucking slut ~.” 

 

Her pulse spikes, and her stomach knots. Something about the way he says it is unsettlingly artificial, too slick, too smooth. She squeezes her eyes shut, refusing to let the tears spill. She won’t give Machine Head that. Not again. The coil in her core is wound tight enough to snap any second now.

 

Without any warning, the boss pulls out of her mouth entirely. Air floods her lungs, pain raw and burning, clearing her head. Too fast. Too much. The coil snaps, and Romi’s back shoots off the bed in a perfect arch. The orgasm hits with the ferocity of a gale-force wind blowing through her, ripping her up and setting her whole body and mind asunder with all-consuming pleasure. Her scream is silent. Felt rather than heard. All of her limbs tense and struggle from the sheer insane onslaught of electric ecstasy. Every muscle locks. Every nerve catches fire. The boss keeps her right there, riding that wave, fingers wet from her spilling arousal as he keeps rubbing her overstimulated, throbbing clit. And then, nothing.  All Romi’s insides twitch and clench around nothing. She feels empty. A whimpering, mewling mess.

 

And Machine Head, Machine Head laughs.

 

"Eyes up here, slut.” His voice slices clean through her high. She jolts, eyes snapping open to stare up at him, body on full alert, even while wrecked by the tremors from her core. 

 

The hand, which is not still assaulting her clit, is wrapped tightly around the base of his cock. Head flushed and oozing with precum, it's obvious how close he must've come himself. 

 

Her mouth waters. She hates herself for it.  

 

The boss starts jerking himself off.

 

She’s still gasping for air when her lips part instinctively. At least, she tells herself that. The lie is easier to stomach than the alternative.  She feels his hexagonal eyes burning into her, tracking every ragged rise and fall of her chest and breasts, like a predator savouring the sight of a fresh kill.

 

He stuffs his fingers, three this time, back into her still-quivering cunt. She clenches and pulses around them, drawing him deeper, his digits stretching buried deep inside of her. 

 

“Fuck, still cumming, are we? Fuck. Oh yeah—oh yeah, that’s hot. That’s so fucking nice—“ Machine Head’s voice crackles, more static than human, more beast than man.  

 

Romi stares up at his glowing magenta eyes. Unhinged. That's what he sounds like. That's what he is. Like a feral beast unleashed, he keeps stroking his cock in quick succession. Circuits crackle, energy surges, his eyes and mouth burn electric, so pretty, so lethal, so fucking wrong, and then he's cumming with a groan. All over Romi’s face. Thick, white ropes of cum shoot out of his cock. Most of the load lands in Romi’s open, waiting mouth, coating her tongue in the salty substance. She doesn’t swallow. Keeps her mouth open for him to see because she knows that’s what he’d want. Fuck. Machine Head’s cumming so much. 

 

Like a reflex, her hands play with her small tits, massaging and circling her sore and abused nipples and the soft swell of tissue around them. She doesn’t even care anymore. Above her, Machine Head’s breathing is ragged, both organic and synthetic. Breath sounds stuttering, fans screaming like his head’s about to overheat, hell, maybe even detonate. He pulls his hand from between her thighs, and he straightens to his full impressive height, skin slick with sweat, dampening his chest hair and making his abdomen glisten. He doesn’t move any further. Just stares down at her, head cocked at an unnatural angle.   

 

She shudders, trying to push herself up on shaking arms and jelly legs. Her body feels weak and boneless. The amount and mix of clear and creamy, milky stickiness between her thighs is unmistakable. She came harder than ever before. She’s just as sick as Machine Head is. Maybe worse. Her breath is still all wrong, shallow, broken, jagged, by the time she manages to sit up and swing her legs off the side of the bed.

 

Machine Head is already standing there, looming like judgment day, even without his three-piece suit, rubbing the edge of his chrome-plated jaw in a strangely human gesture. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the bastard looked stunned.

 

She sticks her tongue out at him, presenting him with the cum collected there. 

 

He freezes. Then: “Goddamn.” The word leaks out low and warped as he steps in, slotting himself right between her spread knees like he owns the space. And maybe he does.

 

Eyes locked on his, she swallows his cum slowly, an obvious, deliberate motion.

 

He moves when her mouth opens to show him it’s all gone. Fast. His hand snaps out, clamping around her abused and bruised throat, not choking again, not yet, just enough pressure. He yanks her toward him like he’s reeling in a prize, head tilting as he studies her. The other hand comes up to her cheek, fingers tacky with her drying juice, smearing stray ropes of cum, thumb brushing under her lip. He collects his seed.

 

She parts her mouth without a word. Obedient. Or maybe Romi’s just broken. What the hell is she even doing? Her brain’s running on fumes, oxygen-starved, dopamine-flooded, oxytocin-warmed, barely functioning, and her body? Still begging for him like a sadist’s wet dream.

 

Machine Head’s cum-covered fingers push into her mouth, dragging and rubbing across her tongue, forcing her to savour his taste again and her own. 

 

“Jeez, so docile and sweet now, huh?” he says. “I like you like this, giggles. I might keep you around. Lock you up someplace. Open the door when I’m bored or pissed or just curious.” 

 

He leans in further, fingers still pressing on her tongue, the other hand itching around her throat like he’s fishing for a reaction—and already knows he’ll get one. 

 

“And between you and me? Keep it real quiet, yeah? I know you can keep a secret. It’s been a long time since I came like that. Came at all. Sustained a—y’know.” His tone becomes more sardonic—as if he were baring his teeth. “You’re like a goddamn miracle cure. You’re magic, my little seizure-inducing, secret-collecting, cock-whispering bruja.” 

 

Romi glares up at him and bites down, gently, deliberately, her teeth catching just enough to get a reaction as she sucks his fingers clean.

 

He pulls his fingers back—pop!

 

Romi’s voice comes out hoarse, barely more than a rasp. “They say that’s a common problem, boss. Happens to a lot of killer robots your age. No shame in it. Secret’s safe with me.”

 

She even mimes—zipping her lips shut, a crooked smile cutting through the pain.

 

“Doesn’t make you any less of a man or anything—” She chokes on her own saliva, coughs and wheezes, but that  makes it funnier. Laughing hurts, and that only makes her laugh harder.

 

She doesn’t want the boss to keep her. But she also doesn’t want her head blown off. Life’s complicated.

 

Machine Head grabs her face with both hands. She flinches, a reflex, but he tilts and presses his faceplate against her mouth instead of a blow. A twisted parody of a kiss. She opens for him. Moves her tongue against the metal as if it might matter—as if it might reach him. It leaves her breathless.

 

Romi should be afraid. The tension between them is thick enough to crack steel. She should be terrified of the boss, this deranged metal-headed criminal mastermind with a god complex and no value on life. But she’s not sure she is. Not anymore. Her arms slide up and behind his head, fingers tracing the smooth alloy and ridged ports and segments. She’s getting used to the way he moves. Learning his sounds, his tells. And every little thing she figures out feels like leverage. Knowledge is power, especially when the bastard in charge is part machine and full psychopath.

 

When he pulls away, his grip on her face tightens again. No more play. Two minutes of softness were all he had in him.

 

Romi grins, lips slick, teeth bared. Licks them for good measure. Her eyes never leave his. She’s ready.

 

“On all fours,” Machine Head growls, his voice like a low, electric hum as he releases her face with a rough shove.

 

Her breath catches, pussy throbbing intensely. Almost more than her pulse pounding against the bruises blooming on her neck. Her wanton hole is begging to be touched, filled, and stretched. Romi crawls backward on the oversized bed, slow, deliberate, not looking away from him, she's going for bold, likely it’s just dumb. But something in her says he likes it. It’s suicidal for some to look at him like that. Most flinch. Most beg. But she doesn’t. And that does something to him. And some small part of her thinks he likes how she looks at him like a man, not a monster. She sees him, even if only through this haze of lusty madness.

 

He watches her like a predator watching prey that forgot it was prey. 

 

She shifts to the centre of the bed, turns, drops to her forearms, and raises her hips, back arched just right. Glistening cunt on a silver platter for the boss. Chin tilts, eyes half-lidded, lashes low, lips part. She glances over her shoulder like a siren inviting her damnation. 

 

“Like this, boss?” she murmurs, voice sweet. She’s smiling. She wants to see what he’ll do.

 

Intimacy was never her strong suit. It always felt like acting, a shitty play with worse dialogue. She’s never been good at pretending. Hearing what they really thought of her was off-putting. Affection always felt like a joke with no punchline. But now? Whatever exists between them isn't fake. Not anymore. It’s liberating. Terrifying. Unfiltered. She should be ashamed, but all she feels is electric. God, she's enjoying herself. She's fucked. She's so screwed. Literally. Figuratively. Existentially. She should feel ashamed. Instead, she feels invincible. Fucked. But unstoppable.

 

The bed shifts with his weight within a heartbeat, and he is behind her. His knees rest between her calves. She spreads further for him.

 

“Boss?” she asks again, baiting him, fighting a cheek-aching grin.

 

He growls. Annoyed. Or pretending to be. 

 

“Shut your goddamn mouth, giggles,” he snaps, but his voice betrays him. There’s glee behind the static, a perverse sorta delight.

 

“I know what you’re trying to do. You think you’re real ~ clever.” 

 

His hands find her again, kneading the bruised, supple flesh of her ass. Rough. Claiming. His voice is lower, raw, almost intimidating, like peeling the mask off a monster and finding another monster beneath, but one that needed her.

 

Romi’s smirk falters when the boss rubs his cock against her pussy, up and down in slow, repetitive and firm strokes. Through her slit and all the way until his head pushes against her asshole. How the hell is he that hard again already? She shudders, not from fear, well, not entirely. Her breath comes short. It almost feels like he's wired into her, reading every twitch, every spike of adrenaline.  She hisses, eyes fluttering shut from the sensation. And that's a mistake, she hears everything louder when she can't see. The wet, squelching sounds mixed with the boss’s sharp, vented breaths and the manufactured ones. Ringing in her ears torturously. 

 

“Shit—” she gasps, low and breathy, not even aware she’s said it aloud. 

 

He laughs like he knows. With eyes shut, the noise is like a blender full of nails. Then, casually, like he’s talking about the weather, as he exerts more pressure on his shaft, coating his cockhead in her overflowing juices: “Y’know, normally I don’t go bareback. But you?” His voice is a jagged purr. “Oh, you don’t strike me as a disease-riddled whore. Lucky you, trading secrets for the Riveras kept you off your back. So, I’ll make a rare exception. I’m gonna go ahead and risk it. You’re welcome.” 

 

Romi’s blood turns to ice. Her eyes instantly fly open. She whips her head around, eyes wide, panic leaking into her voice. 

 

“Wait—no, no, no. Not without a condom. Please—I’m not on anything. I can’t—”

 

There’s a pause. Not long, enough for the air to become toxic. Romi feels it, the shift. 

 

His grip clamps down harder, crushing now, digging into her ass and hips, the press of them adding to the bruises. The kinda grip that leaves no room for argument. She tries to crawl forward, just a little, just enough to signal no without sparking violence. It’s instinct. Bad instinct. Machine Head drags her ass back so hard and fast that she yelps.

 

She’s pressed flush against him again. His hardness hits her oversensitive pussy and has her mewling and grinding on autopilot, seeking a little friction as the remaining part of her rational brain fights her ever-growing behemoth of arousal. Empty and so needy and confused. There’s not a single time she’s ever felt this way. Near drunk on it, almost drugged. Why does the boss have this effect on her? It makes no sense.

 

Machine Head knows. He continues sliding his cock through her slick folds, smearing her juices everywhere, coating his shaft in it. 

 

“You wanna run that by me again, sweetheart?” he growls, voice warped, static-choked, colder than ever. 

 

Her stomach is twisting. She knows that sound behind his voice, like a machine winding up, something breaking past the point of no return. 

 

“Say it. Real slow.” 

 

She tries to shift away again, just slightly, that survival reflex.

 

Machine Head drags her right back, knocking the breath out of her. 

 

She’s never felt like this, strung out on fear and want, hollow and full like he’s short-circuiting everything rational. 

 

“I—I didn’t mean—I can’t get—“

 

“Nah, you did.”

 

He laughs again, low and mean and metallic.  “Oh, you can’t, huh? You think this is a negotiation?” 

 

And then he keeps laughing, abrupt and careless, which says he controls every inch of her, even the fear she doesn’t want him to see.

 

“Let me break this down for you, my simple girl,” he starts. “You’re not here because you can. You’re here because I said so. You’re here because something in that fried little brain of yours wants to be ruined.”

 

His fingers trace down her spine, deceptively gentle. “And ruined you will be.”

 

She shivers. The panic's still there, swimming just under the surface, but so is something else. Something twisted. Addictive. He’s wrong. Romi’s not here because he said so. She’s here because no one else ever made her feel this alive. And that terrifies her more than anything he could ever do.

 

Then real soft, he speaks again, like he’s been mulling over her words, and almost mockingly sweet:

 

“Fucking hell, giggles, you’re so goddamn cute when you think you still have choices.” 

 

He is gleeful. Ecstatic. Cruel as hell. And then dark:

 

“Now, say it again. With more feeling this time. C’mon.”

 

“Boss—" Her voice breaks. She swallows and tries again.

 

“I’m not taking the pill. So don’t fu—"

 

Romi doesn’t even get the words out before Machine Head rams his cock into her without warning. All the way. No pause. No grace. To the hilt. Until she can feel his balls press flush against her clit. The air gets punched from her lungs in a shattered moan, her fingers clawing at the sheets like they might save her. They don’t.

 

“God—” she whimpers, brain short-circuiting. He doesn’t save her, either. 

 

It’s too much. Too good. Too fast. Too deep. Romi’s body goes up in flames, her mind wiped clean in one thrust. 

 

“You fucking asshole!” she swears pitifully, twisting her head to glare over her shoulder, teeth bared in a flash of fury and helpless pleasure.

 

He plants his hands like anchors, holding her in place, immovable, unstoppable, and entirely in control. He moves his hips and stirs his cock around inside of her. 

 

“Oops ~,” Machine Head sings, all distorted glitchy gravel, autotuned like a song died and gone to hell. “Oh, I’m sorry, chica. Couldn’t control myself.” 

 

Cocky bastard. He’s not sorry. Not even close. His tone is smug, cruel, and amused. Her anger only seems to encourage and entertain.

 

Before Romi can respond, the boss pulls his cock almost out until only his head remains inside. Her eyes flutter shut as she lip bites to prevent more pitiful, needy noises. She’d never admit it, but she already missed the feel of him. She wants to hate him. Desperately. But her body betrays her. She tilts her hips without thinking, offering herself up like she was born to take him. Built for this purpose. Like a needy bitch. Acting like a dog in heat, begging to be bred. But she doesn’t care. Not in the slightest. She’s desperate for him to push into her again.

 

“Ahhh ~ there it is,” Machine Head coos, leaning over her until the whir of his cooling system brushes her sweat-slick back. “Changed your mind already, giggles?” And with that, he slams back inside. 

 

She doesn’t answer. Can’t. Her mouth is open, but all that comes out is another broken moan. The boss moans in unison. Her thoughts dissolve into static as he moves, and she arches into him. Their combined noises mingle with the storm raging outside the tower. 

 

“So fucking deep,” she gasps, voice thready, barely there. Trying to accommodate him. It’s a tight fit. 

 

“Oh, I know.” He sounds like he’s grinning again. “You good?” 

 

Romi takes a few deep breaths in reply, trying to get used to him. But Machine Head isn’t intent on granting her that time, though. He starts fucking her right away.

 

Every stroke is deep and with intent. His cock head pressed up against her cervix, not quite hard enough to hurt real bad, but enough to take her breath away. The only thing she can do is take it. Take it like a broodmare as he pounds her from behind. Moves her hips back and forward as he pleases. 

 

She collapses forward, face pressed and rubbing against the smooth, pristine sheets with every thrust. Her only anchor is the sound of his distorted moans and words, deep, guttural, mechanised chaos pouring through his modulator like sweet, molten sin. It fries her brain and makes her shiver in all the wrong places. The boss’s voice does terrible things to her, hearing how much he fucking loves her cunt sets her on fire in a way that’s never happened before. She’s not supposed to like this. Not this much. A deep, deep, deeply buried, very fucking twisted part of herself wants to please this man above everything. This disgusting, vile, evil monster of a man’s approval is important. Maybe she’s beyond saving. Maybe she’s already corrupted. Broken beyond repair. 

 

“Listen to that,” he growls, dragging her attention back as if yanking on a leash. “You hear that sound? That’s us. That’s you, chica. You’re a goddamn symphony. Your greedy little pussy is so wet for me. How could you ever expect me not to fuck it raw? ~” 

 

She pushes herself back up, trembling, still-damp hair clinging to her face. Falling like a dark curtain. Obscuring her vision. And yeah, he’s right. It’s filthy. Disgusting. Loud and slick and obscene. Romi can hear it: the unmistakable squelching and slapping wet noise every time he shoves his cock inside of her pussy. It’s filthy beyond reason. And it only makes her hotter. Nerves alight and tingling with pleasure. Winding through her whole body. Like an electric current flowing through, with every thrust sending jolts shooting through her entire being. 

 

“Machine Head, please—“

 

She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for anymore. Mercy? More? It’s all blurring together.

 

But hearing little Romi say his moniker seems to trigger something in the boss. His rhythm shifts, faster, harder, darker. Angling himself up. Hitting every single sensitive part inside punishingly. Romi’s eyes roll back in her head, mouth open in a silent scream.

 

Her limbs finally catch up with her need, and she starts moving in sync, chasing something for which she doesn’t have words. Every explicit sound from her throat is a sin. Every gasping breath is another nail in the coffin of who she used to be.

 

Machine Head’s grunts are every bit like the savage he is, modulated growls echoing through the room like a beast with a speaker for a soul as she gyrates and clenches her pussy around him. 

 

She should hate this. Hate the boss. But she doesn’t. Not even close. She can’t tell him to stop, even though she knows she should. He’s fucking every single ounce of protest out of her. But with her mind growing hazier, she doesn’t even see a problem anymore. They just fit, like a virus in a system designed to be catastrophic and beautiful in its undoing.

 

As exquisite as the boss's strokes are, they’re not nearly enough. She needs more. She needs to snap. She needs to burn. Romi’s walls keep tightening, and tension and pressure are building. She needs an exit. A helpless whine crawls out of her throat at a particularly vicious thrust. She presses her face into the mattress to muffle the sound, reaching back between her thighs to gain access to her neglected clit in a desperate bid for relief.

 

Machine Head notices instantly.

 

“Oh no you don’t!” he snarls.

 

Without missing a beat, not one, he grabs her wrists and yanks them back, pinning them roughly against her spine like she’s some unruly inmate getting dragged back into solitary. That fucking asshole doesn’t even stop pistoning his hips, pace never stuttering out of rhythm. Cold, brutal efficiency. He handles her like he owns her body down to the last trembling nerve. 

 

She winces at the strain in her shoulders, back arching in protest, but it’s useless. Machine Head’s not here for her comfort. Never there for anyone’s comfort.

 

Above her, Machine Head is fully aware of the torment he’s inflicting. He’s a sadist, through and through, wired for cruelty. He keeps driving into her like her pain is divine. Bullying her insides open with his cock. Hitting every damn spot that makes her writhe. He laughs. He is heartless. It’s mechanical and cruel, like a weaponised sound byte, ugly, jagged, devoid of soul, showing his true colours. The depths of his depravity never surprise Romi. She’s heard enough. Even if she hasn’t seen the worst, she believes it. She doesn’t give up on struggling, though.

 

“Oh? Still got an attitude?” he growls. “I knew you were a greedy whore. Just like all the others. Can’t ever get enough, can you?” He lands a slap straight down on her ass. 

 

She shrieks, shocked by the sting, the pleasure, the agony of him keeping her right there, teetering at the edge and never letting her fall.

 

“I can’t cum like this—!” she cries, furious with herself, humiliated, desperate. 

 

She’s so close. It’s gnawing at her sanity. Turning her into something impatient, whining, and needy. She fucking hates being like this! 

 

But he leans in closer, his vent blowing hot air over her spine as his fingers tighten around her wrists like steel restraints.

 

“Who the fuck said you get to cum anyway?” he growls into her ear. “You don’t cum until I say. You’re my slut, understand? Property doesn’t get off without permission. Get that into your pretty little head.” 

 

He punctuates every sentence with another slap—the same spot over and over until she’s shaking, the pain a blooming fire across her skin. Again.  And again.  And again.  And again. And again. Each one harsher than the last, raw and deliberate. The sting doesn’t fade. The afterburn thrums like a warning flare. Not even Machine Head’s palm smoothing over the damage makes it better, if anything, it pisses her off more.

 

And then, that voice again, mocking venom:

 

“You want me. Don’t lie. That’s what tiffs you off the most, yeah?”

 

It is. That’s the worst part. She wants him. This inhuman bastard. This walking fucking nightmare of metal and ego and violence with his ridiculous singsong voice. And still, her body begs for him. Craves his voice, his hands, his power. It’s disgusting. Romi knows it’s abhorrent. And still, she can’t stop. She doesn’t want to. The anger, the shame, the lust, it all crashes together and churns into something toxic and heady. A horrible little epiphany. Romi might be beyond saving. She can’t stop moaning and driving her hips back into him. 

 

And Machine Head? He likes, no, loves it that way.

 

But Romi’s angry. Not the kind of anger that simmers and stews. The type that detonates. The kind that throws hands when there’s no chance of winning. Romi does stupid shit when she’s pissed, and tonight is no exception. See, she’s always been a head through the wall kinda gal. Her limbs feel like noodles from the restaurant earlier, boneless from the relentless pounding and the way Machine Head keeps her arms pinned like a ragdoll. But her teeth clench. Her spine locks. And then, impulsively, stupidly, so fucking stupidly, she throws herself and her head back as hard as she can. Metal meets bone. The impact is immediate, sharp, dizzying, and blinding. Romi’s skull hits something titanium. A crack of white heat booms behind her eyes, and the back of her throat contracts like she might puke. But then she hears it. Hears him. A grunt. Surprised. An unexpected possibility. And it’s glorious. Worth the concussion. She laughs. Cackles through the ringing in her ears, through the pain flooding her skull, because of course, of course, this is what her life has become. Dumb, dumb, dumb, stupid bitch. Fuck. She giggles into the mattress, half delirious.

 

Machine Head stops. He pulls out and lets go of her wrists all at once. Her arms fly back like dead weight, and she tries to lift herself, but the whole room tilts sideways, and she’s tipping over like a downed, gooned up drunk. Then, he wrenches back a fistful of her hair, vicious enough to pull strands from the root. She yelps. A second later, he shoves one side of her face into the mattress with brute force. His face lowers into her periphery as if wary and curious, mask gleaming, magenta eyes cutting through the dark. There's blood smeared across the yellow-and-black plating, her blood. The hot wetness at the back of her head makes sense. 

 

“You never stop fighting, do you.”

 

It’s not a question. Not with that voice, auto-tuned, cruelly modulated, always sounding like it’s halfway between a joke and a threat. A predator that learned how to smile and sing just to fuck with you.

 

“You love it, boss,” she bites out through broken laughter, wild-eyed, voice strained and breathless and deranged, in a world of pain. Trying and failing to fight off his unrelenting hold. 

 

The boss is a sight to behold. Feral murder robot mode activated. Unhinged and built for slaughter. Faceplate smeared red, optics glowing like pink-purple hellfire, bare body slick with sweat on top of her, nothing could ever compare. 

 

Her chest heaves. She’s throbbing. Empty. So empty. And aching for him. 

 

He knows. 

 

“You’re fucking dumb as dogshit, giggles,” he says. “But you’re perfect.”

 

No real mockery this time. No venom. Just sick, twisted adoration, reverence, awe, the kind of praise that makes Romi want to cry and kill something at the same time. It hits like a drug, and she’s lost. Like that time in the shower when he held her hand. Or when he tended to her after she blacked out. These strange little moments when the devil forgets to lie. 

 

“Kiss me,” she demands hoarsely, breath hitching, like it’s the most natural thing to ask a machine-headed monster with no real mouth and no lips. Like she hasn’t completely lost her grip on reality. Maybe she has. Maybe she doesn’t care.

 

He obeys. The metal of his mask presses against her mouth. She parts her lips, dragging her tongue across the U-shaped, palest pink marking where his lips should be, tasting steel and her coppery blood. She moans into the plate. Machine Head moans back. 

 

Every part of her is flushed and raw and desperate. Her blood feels radioactive. She arches up, pressing her ass against the boss’s cock, seeking him. She pulls away from the “kiss”, panting, dizzy, and finds Machine Head’s eyes. 

 

His face is a mess, smeared with a pink mix of her spit and blood.  They just stare. There’s nothing to say. No words are needed. He releases the merciless grip on her hair, and she moves immediately, flinging herself onto him like a woman possessed. He lets her. Falls back, body thudding onto the bed beneath him. She lays on top, tits pressing flush with his chest, his cock pushing against her belly, slick and hard. She feels every pulse and twitch of the monster under her.

 

She starts kissing him again, feverish little touches of tongue and lips against cold, bloodstained alloy. She drags her tongue slowly through the mess she left, moaning as his hands lock around her waist. His grip is punishing. Perfect. They both sway with his deep inhale, synced. And for one fucked-up second, Romi feels complete. 

 

“Come here, giggles.”

 

By now, the nickname fits. It's not a punishment for laughing at the boss, it's a reward, a twisted little medal of honour. 

 

The boss tightens his hold and lifts her off his chest like she’s weightless. He’s not bulky, not built like a tank, but he’s got a wiry strength, and she is only small. It makes her desire soar.

 

She’s ill for him, and she stops pretending otherwise. Stops pretending she is sane. Stops pretending she doesn’t want to fuck him and let him mark every inch of her body. 

 

He shifts beneath her until she’s hovering above his faceplate, dripping pussy on full display for him. Her stomach dips. Heat blooms, embarrassing and raw. Her core clenches so hard it almost makes her gasp. Does the boss want her to—?

 

“Sit.”

 

Fuck yes. She drops her knees to either side of his head and sinks onto him, pressed flush against the polished surface of his metal face. It’s cold on the leaking heat of her abused pussy, soothingly so, but he grabs her hips the moment they connect, grinding her down harder. No mercy. It’s uncomfortable. No, it fucking hurts. And that only makes it better. She bows forward with a strangled moan as pleasure crackles through her like a live wire.

 

The boss starts moving with brutal precision, dragging her across his unyielding faceplate like she’s a rag doll.

 

She’s raw. Overstimulated. Utterly ruined from the denial, and now this, this cruel flood of sensation that pushes her straight to the edge. She mewls and collapses onto her hands, unable to stay upright or do anything but take it.

 

He’s ruthless. Tireless.

 

Romi’s body bucks, she begins to try and rock herself with him, her thighs burn from trying to crush him, and her voice breaks off into a hoarse, wrecked cry.

 

“Boss—don’t—fuck, please don’t stop—”

 

Her skin prickles all over, her chest tight and shivering. The coil in her belly tightens like it’s about to snap. Just when she thinks she’s free-falling, he reaches around one hand, shoving three fingers inside her without preamble, the other pressing a cruel, insistent digit against her asshole like he’s trying to break her open.

 

Then he hums against her clit. Sad, somehow. Too fucking sad.

 

“Wish I could—” his voice glitches, tuning itself mid-sentence like broken synth-wave “—fucking taste you ~.”

 

Clean but hollow. Haunted. The audio equivalent of dead-eyes.

 

It shreds Romi’s composure, along with his fingers stuffing both her holes as he vibrates her clit. Her vision whites out. Romi cries out, she thinks she does, anyway, but she’s gone, detonated, consumed from the inside out. The orgasm drags her under like a drowning. She clenches, helpless and wild, feeling her arousal leak out, and when the waves finally recede, her body’s a trembling mess, her mind nowhere to be found. 

 

“Giggles,” Machine Head groans.

 

His voice is wrecked, garbled static wrapped in silk, and hearing it unspools something ugly and desperate in her all over again.

 

He pulls his fingers out of her, and she shivers from the lack of them, instantly missing the suffocating feeling inside. She can't help but whimper, hating herself for her neediness. But only a little. She pushes herself up and almost topples, her legs barely functioning. She stares down at him, breath heaving, caught again by those hollow robot eyes and the inhuman hunger smouldering in them. She did this. She broke the boss a little. She wipes a finger across the wet gleam of his faceplate. Blood, cum, saliva. All her. 

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, bringing her finger to her mouth and sucking it clean, slow, noisy, obscene.

 

Machine Head throws her off him.

 

She lands hard, back slamming into the pillows, limbs splayed in all directions like a marionette. Her brain scrambles to orient itself, blinking the daze out of her vision.  She looks back at him. He is kneeling on the bed. Naked. Scarred. Sweat-slicked. Hard. A chrome god draped in vice. Her mouth waters. She swallows instinctively, legs falling further open like her body already knows what's coming. Inviting him in. 

 

He tilts his head down, just slightly, the movement deliberate. Calculated. Taking in her glistening cunt, waiting for him, dripping wet and begging to be filled. A beat of heavy silence stretches between them. The only sound in the room is breathing. His is mechanically controlled and perfectly metered to exertion. Hers, shallow and rattling, cracked open by want. Then Machine Head falls forward onto his hands. On all fours. Like a predator. Her breath catches sharp in her throat. He crawls the distance between them with a slow, terrifying grace until he's right above her. Caging her in.

 

She looks up at the obsidian and yellow-gold gleam of his faceplate. Her toes curl.  He looks unleashed. Unhinged. And Romi is more than ready to be devoured. Another second of charged stillness.  Then they collide. Her mouth crashes into his metal faceplate like a car into a wall. Her lips tender against the alloy, all tongue, spit, and teeth, and she doesn’t care. She opens for him anyway, as if she could taste him, fucking eat him, through the goddamn titanium.  

 

He collapses into her, pinning her down with his chest.

 

She gasps, hips tilting up and lifting reflexively, and then she feels him. Throbbing hardness pressed up against her cunt. Ready. There’s no turning back. Romi’s hand sneaks between their bodies, grabbing the Crime Lord of Chicago’s cock and guiding him until his head spreads her folds and nudges at her hole.

 

He doesn’t need further encouragement. He rocks his hips forward and drives into Romi, spearing her with his cock. So deep she feels him push against her womb. She silently screams, her voice incapable after what he’s done. Machine Head, on the other hand, groans and curses, low and coarse and filthy in her ear, enough to make her quiver from his voice alone.

 

“Fucking hell.”

 

His voice is glitched, garbled static wrapped in razor wire. It shreds right through Romi.  

 

“Move,” she begs, clawing down the metal ridges of his skull, snapping off the rest of her ruined nails.

 

She hooks her legs around his hips, crossing her feet to push him in harder, trapping herself under him. She gasps at the feeling. So utterly full. Her plea isn’t necessary. Machine Head shifts the moment he feels her cling, and now it’s personal. His movements lose precision. They get messy. His body slams against hers again and again, and Romi can barely think through the overwhelming intensity. Her face is inches from his. She stares up, open-mouthed, hypnotised, and Machine Head, he watches her. He watches every twitch, flinch, and shattered expression like he’s memorising how she breaks. Romi’s arousal leaks out of her, making a mess of his lower abdomen and balls and running between her ass cheeks. Making it easier for the boss to hammer into her with barely any resistance. She whimpers. Mind in a frenzy. She meets his every stroke with every ounce of fervour left in her battered body. Her fingers twitch with the urge to rub her clit. But she can’t let go of him.

 

“Look at that,” he growls. “Finally accepted your role.”

 

Romi’s pussy clenches around his cock. It makes her blood scream in her veins. Her tears blur her vision as her pulse races to a blinding crescendo. Her entire body burns.  

 

Speech slurring, branded by everything Machine Head did to her, and yet full of euphoria and hubris, she says with a smile on her lips: "I hope you rot in hell, boss." 

 

He leans in, metal just shy of her cheek.  

 

“We’ll rot together, giggles.”

 

Then he crushes his face into hers. It’s not a kiss, it’s another collision.

 

Something is bleeding. Romi’s nose? Her teeth? She doesn’t know and doesn’t care. The pace is so brutal she barely keeps up. She moans against the metal, high and gasping. Her sanity fractures like glass with every violent thrust. Against all odds, she tightens again, muscles beginning to spasm. Ready.  

 

And then, her throat clamps shut. Air. Gone. Her eyes fly open. Met with the boss’s unfeeling neon gaze. She claws at his arms.

 

He’s choking her. Again. Both hands are around her neck now. No pretence. No prelude. Just raw mechanical force strangling the life out of her.  

 

Panic and pressure explode behind her eyes. The room spins. She tries to scream, but there's no air. Her limbs thrash. Her fingers carve endless bloody lines down his arms. Tears spring and run down her face. 

 

He doesn’t stop. He tightens. He groans. He fucks Romi within an inch of her life.

 

Her pussy tightens more from the tension in her body as her orgasm builds regardless of circumstance.

 

He'll kill her. This time, for sure.

 

“~The fear in your eyes—fuck. You should see yourself, you filthy little—you fucking slut—so hot! I wish—~” His voice cracks. Rattles like dying code.

 

And still, he crushes her throat, fingers digging deeper, thumbs pressed over her arteries. Her heart punches at her ribs in cold panic. Romi’s vision edges with black.

 

Circuits crackle. Energy whines somewhere in the boss’s skull. He pulsates so deep inside of her. His groans are now whimpering, needy, desperate, not becoming of a kingpin. But the hot spill of his cum inside her pussy is her undoing. Her climax violently rips through her whole body as her cunt spasms and twitches and milks his cock for every last drop. Her last thought--something about neon eyes and mouth glowing over her like a machine god about to bury her beneath him. Then, everything goes dark.

Chapter 6: i’m not a bad guy

The taste of blood, cum, and metal coats Romi’s tongue as she jolts awake with a gasp. Heavy on the copper, salt and regret. She breaks into a dry cough. Fingers twitching, but unable to fly to her throat. Adrenaline’s still crashing through her like she’d woken up mid-fight. A knife is lodged behind her eyes. Or at least, that’s what it feels like, twisting through her skull, carving out her brain in slow, deliberate circles. A migraine mongrel bred in hell. Still, pain means she’s alive. Fucking joy. 

 

For a flick of a second, she forgets where she is. Then it all rushes back in, like a kick in the ribs. Like Auntie found her asleep in the dressing room again, but she wishes that were the case. Her body aches in places she doesn’t want to think about. The sheets beneath her are damp, sticky, and starting to cool. Evidence of the kind of violence you can’t undo, even with bleach and prayer.

 

She does the math. Can’t have been out long. Can’t have been too long since the boss choked her out. She figures because his softening cock is still buried deep inside of her. He must’ve removed his hands from her neck the moment she fainted.  What a gentleman. How romantic. Chicago’s most eligible bachelor. 

 

Though dimly lit, the room still slices at her eyes like razors. She squints through the haze—that is, until the machine-headed man lying on top of her shifts, and a shadow falls over her face. Her gut wrenches. He’s awake. He’s watching.. That nightmare metal máscara hovers inches above her, shiny black and yellow-gold and splattered with more evidence of the fucked up shitfest she just participated in. The neon magenta of his optics, bright, unblinking. Alarm bells scream through her skull. Whatever spell had her cock whipped earlier? Broken. Her brain’s rebooted. Threat recognised. Heart jackhammering.

 

Romi doesn’t know what she expects now. A snide remark? A cruel joke? A slow, sick commentary on her performance? Some degrading reminder that she means nothing? She braces. Bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw more blood. 

 

“Rise and shine, giggles. Back amongst the living?” His voice is low. Bored almost. Like she’s late to a staff meeting. “Good. We need to talk shop.” 

 

And it still sounds good. Smooth. Buzzing through the room like a radio picking up a devil’s sermon.

 

She shivers. She tries to move, to shove him off, but her limbs are dead weight. Her throat’s a war zone. All she can manage is a wet, miserable groan. 

 

He moves her like she weighs nothing, one arm looping around her to hoist her against his chest. Like she’s a doll, boneless, lifeless. His cock slips out and she whimpers at the sensation of cum oozing out of her. Machine Head reaches around, swiping his fingers through her wet slit before he pushes his seed back into her. Her eyes cross from the feel of it. Her cunt is beyond overstimulated. 

 

“Shhh,” he soothes, tracing lazy circles on her jaw with a thumb. Gentle. Too gentle. A sick parody of affection. 

 

Her brain’s spiralling. He choked her, fucked her like she wasn’t real, and now he wants to cuddle, plug her? And talk business while he does it? Her wet, bloodshot eyes cut up at him, narrow. She pours every drop of hatred into her stare. 

 

“Why so angry?” he coos. “You’re the one keeping secrets, giggles. You lied.” 

 

The way he says it, too soft, too casual, it makes her blood go cold. Like he isn’t going to gut her with his words. He exhales a self-satisfied sigh, voice turning just a little too amused. 

 

“Should’ve told me about her.” 

 

Romi’s lungs seize. No. No, no, no— 

 

“I—" It comes out broken. Weak, useless. 

 

He laughs. Controlled, that low chuckle like he is holding back real amusement. Before it ramps into something more mocking, it’s cut short, like he got bored with the joke. It’s like he doesn’t truly find anything funny. It’s just a performance to him. It’s all a show of dominance. It’s a you’re already fucked, you just don’t know it yet. 

 

It makes her want to peel her own skin off so she can be someone else. 

 

He keeps stroking her face. Leisurely. Like they’ve got all the time in the world. Like she’s not falling apart right in front of him. 

 

“Come on chica, don’t give me that look,” he hums. “After our little moment the other night, I got curious about you. Had a few rats sniff around a little harder. Guess what they found?”

 

Her heart drops. 

 

“Turns out, you’ve been playing pen pal. Wiring all your tips from the Palace and mailing sweet little notes to an orphanage in Manila.” 

 

Vision tunnels. A thousand needles stab through her chest. He knows. She can hear the grin. That eerie, painted-on expression haunts her. A robot from hell. 

 

He continues to plug and massage her pussy with his fingers the whole time while he’s talking. 

 

She wants to be sick. 

 

“Relax, giggles,” he coos. “She’s safe. For now.”

 

That for now shatters something in her. It’s pure rage that lets her lift her head properly, that allows her to speak at all.

 

“You’re a vile piece of shit.” Venom laces every rasping word. Her lip curls.

 

“And yet, somehow, still more honest than you.” Amused, but something behind it. Something watching. Something fuck around and find out. 

 

She deflates. Her fingers clench the sheets. Her throat tightens. 

 

“What do you want?” she forces out, barely a whisper. 

 

His thumb glides over her jaw again. Too light. Too knowing. It makes her skin crawl. 

 

“Already got it.” 

 

A beat. His voice dips.

 

“It’s you, giggles.” 

 

The words drag her under like concrete boots. Her pulse thunders. She wants to scream, to run, to throw herself out of the bed and tear the room apart piece by piece. But she doesn’t move. Because she knows him. And she knows what happens to the people he doesn’t keep. 

 

“How can I trust you?” she whispers, instantly regretting it. Her voice cracks, thin and raw, catching in her abused throat. Pathetic. All vulnerability. 

 

He goes still. 

 

Her heart trips. 

 

“You can’t,” he says simply. “And you shouldn’t.” 

 

Her nails dig into his scarred chest. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even seem to notice. She stares at him—her blood and juices and saliva smeared over his faceplate, the places on his body she bit and clawed and broke open. A twisted sense of pride curls in her body. Then shame. Then more rage. 

 

He makes a whistling sound. 

 

“Whoa. ~ That look. You could nearly kill a man with that glare, giggles. You have. I saw it once. It was amazing!” 

 

He removes his hand from her face and pushes off the bed. She slides down his chest, the motion only burying his fingers deeper in her pussy. Her eyes flutter shut. Her breath catches as she fights down a needy, humiliating sound—and he notices. 

 

“But hey ~~.” A chuckle. “Your sister is safe. I meant that. You impressed me. Took my cock like a goddamn champion.”

 

His optics gleam. 

 

“Perfect, really. My little spitfire.” 

 

He seals the statement by pressing his faceplate to her face. A kiss. Not real. A mockery, mouthless, artificial. Still, her body betrays her. She responds. Barely. Enough to make him hum in satisfaction. And then he nuzzles into her hair, now dry and wild, matted from all it’s endured with her. What the fuck? 

 

“I’m keeping you, always,” he whispers. “I’m. never. letting. you. go.”

 

That snaps her. She jolts and struggles to push herself up. Push his fingers out. She’s well aware he can see it—that he’s watching her face crumble with glee. Done. It’s over. No way out. 

 

“Ahhh, ~ there it is!” He keeps laughing, folding his arms behind his head and falling back. “God, that face. You should see it, giggles. Priceless. I didn’t even think you could make a face like that. And I’ve seen you make some faces!” 

 

She can’t speak. Can’t cry. Can’t do anything. The events rain down on her brain. Flood her mind with images. Overloading it with everything that he did to her… Everything that she did. She’s unravelling in real time, and he’s loving every second. Doesn’t take a supercomputer or telepathy to figure that one out. He’s practically brimming with euphoria. With delight at her misery. 

 

Then he quiets. 

 

“And do you want to know another good thing about all of this?” 

 

Her gut sinks further. 

 

“You’re gonna make damn sure you tell me everything old Liu was thinking at our little Chinatown meet. All the juicy psychic shit. Every. Last. Detail.” 

 

He leans close, voice a conspiratorial whisper now. 

 

“I’m not the bad guy, giggles.” 

 

Romi pulls a face. Machine Head takes note. 

 

“Liu is. That old fucker would rip you limb to limb and laugh while you bled out if he knew what you could do. He'd eat you like a fucking snack and wouldn't blink about it. Me?” 

 

A beat.

 

“I’m not a bad guy. You think I wake up and say, ‘let’s be real evil today?’ Nah. That's kid shit. Saturday cartoon logic. I'm not some moustache-twirling villain tying girls to train tracks. I'm the guy who owns the damn tracks—and taxed the train companies into begging me for oxygen. You get it. I didn't sell the world. I'm not burning it down. I just learned how to breathe the smoke better than most. I run the system, yeah—but I keep it running. There's a difference. I keep the city moving. Money flows, deals get done, people get fed. You think any of that shit happens without someone like me pulling strings? No. It all falls apart. And deep down? You already know that, mija. That’s why you’re still here.” 

 

She wrinkles her nose. No. She's still here because she doesn't have a choice, and she can't physically run right now. 

 

“I kill, yeah. I manipulate, sure. But so does your average politician—they just wear shittier suits and lie prettier on camera. Me? I don’t lie to you. Never have. I show you the monster up front. Whole display case. And you're still looking at me like that. So ask yourself, giggles, if I’m the bad guy, what’s that make you? ~” 

 

Romi doesn't have an answer. 

 

He laughs again. Softer this time. 

 

“Once I've got this chip, we’ll tear Liu down together. And after that?”

 

A pause. Like he's savouring it, before he sings:

 

“You’re gonna be so goddamn happy I found you. ~”

Notes:

Thanks so much for all the kudos, wonderful comments, bookmarks, and subscriptions, amigos! 🖤 I’m really grateful for your support and enthusiasm. I decided to delete a few chapters so I can rework the pacing, characterisation, and plot—but I’m excited to make the story even better in the future. Appreciate your patience and understanding!