The yacht swayed gently under him, but Ryden didn't notice.
He was shirtless, sweat rolling down his spine, breath steady as he dropped into another set of pushups.
"Ninet-six. Ninety-seven…"
His voice dropped lower. The counting gave way to something else.
"Neuroelectric load balance… linear regression drift…"
He paused, hovered mid-air, muttering the rest under his breath.
He grunted as he pushed one last rep and fell to the floor. Still breathing hard.
His eyes drifted to the desk at the far end of the room—blueprints scattered, a half-assembled neural harness rig lying open like a broken spine.
Something clicked in his head.
He crossed the room, grabbed a stylus, and started sketching on the touchscreen.
"If I reroute the cortical feedback loop through a dynamic CPU… maybe…"
The idea sparked faster than he could finish the thought.
"Juno," he said.
His AI assistant answered immediately.
"Yes, Ryden."
"Search for military-grade low latency processors. The ones that passed the neurothermal tests."
A pause. Then the display lit up.
Result found.
Projected market cost: [placeholder] credits.
He stilled. Jaw tight.
"Tsk. Show me my current balances."
His screen split.
One column: Dream Inc. debt – remaining contract hours, service interest, NDA penalties. [placeholder]
The next: Hospital fees – balance due, neural rehab estimates, care extension requests. [placeholder]
The total wasn't new. But it always hit like a blow to the solar plexus.
He stared for a few seconds. Then turned sharply to the far corner of the room.
The punching bag swung slightly, rocked by the sea.
Ryden attacked it.
One punch.
Then another.
Then a sharp kick that knocked it sideways before the chain dragged it back.
He caught it with both hands and pressed his forehead against the leather.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Focus.
"Juno. Calculate how much I need to clear this month—between debt service, hospital coverage, and CPU purchase."
Calculating.
Required income: [placeholder] credits.
He didn't respond right away.
Then: "Shit."
His work phone lit up on the desk. A quiet vibration.
Incoming assignment.
______________________________________
He plugged the call through to his desk terminal.
No video. Just the blinking green light.
Ryden stood still, sweat still cooling on his back. He let it ring once more, then accepted.
"Yes."
The voice on the other end was crisp. Male. Unfamiliar. A new handler.
"Mr. Kamakura. We're assigning you to a Tier A session."
Pause.
"Contract size: [REDACTED—VIP RATE]."
Ryden said nothing.
A data packet dropped into his inbox. He opened it.
The client profile filled his screen.
Sera Shaw.
Black hair. Pale skin. Eyes that didn't blink for the camera. Pretty. Too pretty to be real.
But she looked cold. Controlled. Except for her soft, sad eyes.
He scrolled. Notes loaded.
Client request: Extreme scenario.
Behavioral pattern: Controlled, scripted abuse.
Goal: total immersion into obsessive emotional harm, with escalating abuse simulation.
Subject demonstrates high pain threshold and preference for verbal, mental, and physical degradation.
Ryden recoiled.
"What the fuck does this mean?"
The handler didn't pause.
"She's chosen a simulation model based on psychological re-enactment of traumatic relationships. Full obsessive and destructive romantic bracket. Emotional volatility, possessive obsession, physical dominance. You'll receive the detailed script within the hour."
Another packet arrived. Ryden opened it.
Lines of dialogue. Movement blocks. Loops.
The scenario played out across the screen like a twisted stage production.
Rage. Restraint. Gaslighting. Submission. Physical violence and sexual aggression…
His chest tightened.
"I can't do this." He gasped.
"This wasn't part of the deal. We never discussed projects like this. I didn't sign up to be your prostitute."
The handler stayed silent for a breath. Then:
"You're under NDA, Mr. Kamakura. Full clause compliance."
Ryden grabbed a stress ball off his desk. Squeezed it once.
"The data we gather from this client will be the first of its kind. Neural analytics from high-trauma fantasy responses are rare. The insights could be valuable for long-term therapy models, even abuse intervention."
"I don't give a shit about your spin."
Another pause.
"Then let's talk about what actually matters," the handler said.
"The damage from your experiment totaled 10 figures in liability. Dream Inc. paid to settle every claim. We wiped the court records. We erased your name from every trial."
Still no answer.
"And we're the ones keeping your mother on neuroregenerative life support. You think anyone else is going to fund that?"
Ryden stared at the monitor beside him.
One side: his Dream Inc. debt.
The other: his sister's hospital records.
A progress bar. Frozen. Red.
"Remember, it is a simulation. No sexual acts are real. She is paying for this. Everything is with consent. And the data we collect will be valuable."
He squeezed the ball tighter.
"…Fine."
His voice was low. Teeth gritted.
"Good," the handler replied. "Review the scenario. Training and neural prep begin at 0600 tomorrow. You'll need to memorize dynamic escalation cues and build rapport within the first thirty seconds. We'll be monitoring your sync latency throughout."
The call ended without a goodbye.
Ryden stood still.
Then hurled the stress ball across the room.
It hit the wall. Dropped. Rolled into silence.
He ran a hand through his hair. Inhaled. Exhaled.
Then turned toward the shower.
Time to get to work.