The rest of the workday passed in a silent, efficient blur. Reports were filed, errors were corrected, tasks ticked off a list that no longer felt like a chain. The suit was armor, the stats were fuel, and the memory of Grace's surprised laugh was a quiet, persistent hum in the background—a new variable to be solved later.
At 5:30 PM, I shut down my computer. The office exodus was beginning. I didn't join the herd at the elevator. I waited, let the crowd thin, then made my way out.
The commute home was a tunnel of streetlights and passing shadows. My mind wasn't on the game, or Grace, or Sasha. It was… empty. Calibrated. Ready for the next input.
I reached my apartment door, slid the key into the lock, and turned.
It didn't turn.
I stood there for a second, key in the lock, feeling the solid, unmoving resistance. It was locked from the inside.
Yuri.
I knocked. Three firm, even raps.
The door swung open almost immediately. Yuri stood there, backlit by the warm light of my apartment, wearing an apron over a thin white tee and a short, dark skirt. The hem brushed the tops of her thigh-high socks. A brilliant, beaming smile lit up her face.
DES ignited, painting her in real-time data:
> Target: Yuri Akeno.
Status: Co-located (User's Primary Residence).
Bio-metrics: Elevated. (BPM: 82, HRV indicating excitement/anticipation).
Emotional State: High positive affect.
Loyalty Metric: 85% → 86%.
Note: Target demonstrates nesting / domestication behavior.
"You didn't go home," I said. My voice was flat. Not a question. An observation.
"I did go home!" she said, the smile never wavering, stepping aside to let me in. The smell of something savory—ginger, soy, sesame—wrapped around me. "I went to the store, finished my shift, closed up. Then I went back to my place, grabbed some of my stuff, and came back here. I figured… you wouldn't mind."
Stuff.
The word landed like a soft, troubling thud in my mind.
Did she move in?
Her thoughts slipped in, a silent, pleading whisper beneath her cheerful exterior: {Please don't be mad. Please don't be mad. Please don't be—}
I cut off the internal noise. "What are you cooking?"
She turned, gesturing toward the kitchen with a wooden spoon. "Katsu curry! My grandma's recipe. You'll love it, I promise." Her eyes were bright, hopeful.
"I'm going to take a shower," I said, moving past her toward the bedroom. "I'll join you after."
"Okay," she said, her voice soft, satisfied.
Her thought followed me down the hall, a delighted, internal squeal, then: {He's not mad! I can stay!}
I closed the bedroom door. The shower was a mechanical process. Hot water, soap, rinse. The events of the day—the suit, the stares, Grace, the calculated victory—sluiced off me and swirled down the drain. I was washing off the game, but a new piece of it was now simmering in my kitchen.
I walked out, towel around my waist, and went to the wardrobe. I pulled it open.
My clothes were pushed to one side. Neatly, respectfully. But pushed. On the other side were a small cluster of her things: a few blouses, a pair of jeans, a soft-looking sweater in pastel pink.
Right. She DID move in.
A slow, cold realization settled in my gut. This wasn't a visit. This was an occupation. A quiet, smiling, curry-scented occupation.
"DES."
The HUD blinked once in the dim room, a silent blue eye.
"How realistic is it for a girl to fall in love this fast?" I asked the empty air, my voice low.
Text assembled in the center of my vision, clinical and definitive:
> Query: Rapid Emotional Attachment in Human Females.
Answer: Within observed parameters. For susceptible targets exhibiting high initial receptivity and compatibility, emotional fixation can achieve near-total saturation within 72 hours of intimate bonding.
Note: Skill [Magnetic Touch – Lvl. 1] accelerates bonding via subconscious emotional imprinting and oxytocin modulation. Effect is permanent.
Permanent.
"So I'm stuck with her?"
DES didn't reply. The silence was answer enough.
I stared at the pink sweater in my wardrobe.
An asset had consolidated itself. It had woven its roots into my territory without a shot being fired. I hadn't just gained a lover; I'd acquired a tenant. A permanent fixture.
A cruel, practical thought surfaced. If she was here, hooked, and loyal… she was a resource. A warm, willing resource.
Might as well make use of her.
The smell of curry was stronger now, filling the apartment. A domestic trap, baited with kindness and grandmother's recipes.
I opened the bedroom door, the towel around my waist the only concession to modesty.
The game wasn't just across the street in a café anymore. It was here. In my home. Sitting in my wardrobe and simmering on my stove.
And I was just starting to find new ways to bend its rules.
---
I stepped into the kitchen. Steam from the curry hung thick in the air, a visible layer of domestic compliance. Yuri's back was to me, arranging plates on the counter with precise, dutiful movements.
The apron was tied tight over the thin white tee, the fabric damp with kitchen heat and clinging to the curve of her back. The short dark skirt did exactly what it was designed to do: it stopped just high enough to show the lace tops of her thigh-high socks, framing a stretch of bare, pale skin above them.
My cock was already rock-hard, throbbing under the towel.
I didn't overthink it. I let the towel drop silently to the floor, freeing the thick, veined, cock, already pulsing with need.
I closed the distance in two strides, pressing up behind her, my chest flush against her back. My lips found the soft skin of her neck, kissing slow and hot, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of her sweat mixed with the spice in the air.
She stiffened, a tiny gasp escaping. "Uhm... T—Terrence..."
"Shush," I murmured against her ear, my voice low, one hand sliding up to cover her mouth gently but firmly, the other gripping her hip, holding her in place against the table's edge.
My cock nudged insistently against the back of her skirt, the fabric a flimsy barrier as I ground forward, letting her feel every rigid inch pressing into the cleft of her ass. She was trembling now, but she didn't pull away—hooked, just like I knew she was.
Good.
With measured slowness, I hooked my fingers under the hem of that short skirt, lifting it inch by inch. The fabric bunched up over her hips, revealing... nothing. No panties. Just smooth, bare skin and the glistening lips of her pussy, already slick, betraying how ready she was for this—for me.
"Fuck," A low, rough sound escaped me, more vibration than voice, as I placed the swollen head of my cock to her entrance. One smooth thrust, and I sank into her heat, her tight walls clenching around me like velvet fire.
She was soaked, yielding perfectly as I buried myself to the hilt, her body arching back against mine instinctively.
I didn't wait. My hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her socks, and I started fucking her, deep, relentless strokes that made the table rattle with the plates. The apron bunched up under my grip, her tee riding up to expose the dip of her waist. Each thrust slapped wetly against her ass, my balls smacking her clit, the scent of curry mixing with the raw musk of her arousal.
She moaned into my palm, muffled and desperate, her pussy fluttering around my cock as I pounded harder, faster, claiming every inch of her right there in the kitchen.
Sweat slicked our skin, her thigh-highs sliding just a fraction with each brutal drive. I could feel her tightening, her body betraying her with little shudders, but this was mine, her loyalty, her heat, all of it.
I fucked her like a man possessed, hips snapping forward until my balls drew up tight, the pressure building to a breaking point.
With a low rough groan, I pulled out, stroking my slick cock.
Hot ropes of cum erupted across her ass, painting the curves white, dripping down over the hem of her skirt and onto her socks. She slumped against the table, breath sawing in and out of her, marked and spent before dinner even started.
I picked up the towel from where it had fallen and wrapped it back around my waist. The cotton was cool against my skin. The domestic scent of curry was still there, but now it was layered with something else—salt, exertion, submission.
I took a seat at the table.
Yuri pushed herself up from the table, movements slow, languid. She smoothed her skirt back down over her thighs, her fingers trembling just slightly. When she turned, her face was flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded and soft. A small, private smile touched her lips.
DES painted the update across my vision, sterile and definitive:
> Target: Yuri Akeno.
Loyalty Metric: 85% → 90%.
Status: Secure. Emotional bonding reinforced via physical dominance and aftercare proximity.
Note: Nesting behavior intensified. Target now considers user's residence primary habitat.
A soft, system-wide chime followed:
> User Level Up: 2 → 3.
Daily Income: $200.
Social Proficiency: +15.
[Desirability Score: 50 / 100] → [Desirability Score: 60 / 100]
She moved to the stove, hips swaying gently, and began ladling curry into a bowl. The ordinary act felt ceremonial now—a ritual of ownership. She placed the steaming dish in front of me, her eyes not quite meeting mine, that smile still playing on her mouth.
I watched her, not with affection, with assessment.
An asset had been reinforced. A territory marked. A system had rewarded compliance.
The game wasn't just bending.
It was beginning to mold itself around my hands.
---
To be continued...