I felt a subtle twitch in my arm, like a faint electric pulse, as I mindlessly scrolled through my computer screen, browsing an endless array of random products on a dimly lit e-commerce site.

  The glow from the monitor cast a soft blue hue over the cluttered room, highlighting the scattered clothes and the empty coffee mug in front of me.

  "Contraceptive pills for men, five bucks for twenty packs," I read aloud, my voice echoing slightly in the quiet space. The deal was too good to pass up—I was running low on my supply anyway, so why not stock up? Without a second thought, I clicked the "Add to Cart" button, watching the little icon update with a satisfying ping.

  "One day we won't have to use those anymore," Car murmured from behind me, her voice warm and teasing.

  She stretched out nguidly on the unmade bed, the sheets rumpling beneath her as she propped herself up on one elbow, her dark hair spilling over the pillow like a cascade of silk. She watched me with those amused, knowing eyes, a faint smile pying on her lips while I fumbled cluelessly through the internet's vast, chaotic sea of tabs and pop-ups.

  "True," I replied with a chuckle, leaning back in my creaky desk chair, "the day that happens is the day I die from sheer happiness."

  I finalized the checkout process, my fingers dancing over the keyboard as I entered the details. The order confirmation popped up on the screen in bold green letters, promising swift delivery to one of Car's many discreet warehouses—scattered across the nearby area like hidden gems in her vast network of operations.

  I clicked off the e-commerce site with a satisfied sigh, the order confirmation still lingering in my mind, and fired up Elden Ring.

  The computer's fans whirred to life, humming just a touch louder as the massive game world began to load, its intricate title screen materializing in a swirl of ethereal mist and golden runes against a brooding, storm-ravaged sky.

  I'd stumbled upon this gem just yesterday during one of my te-night rabbit holes—Car had ft-out refused to recommend it, warning me with that sly grin about its soul-crushing difficulty, the kind that broke lesser pyers.

  But me? I figured I could handle it; after all, I'd survived worse.

  The tutorial unfolded like a dream: I guided my nameless Tarnished through the misty groves and crumbling ruins with ease, the controls buttery smooth under my fingers—dodge rolls precise, sword swings weighty and responsive.

  Confidence swelled as I parried basic foes and climbed toward the Chapel of Anticipation's peak. Then, out of nowhere, this grotesque abomination lunged from the shadows: the Grafted Scion, a hulking mass of fused limbs and writhing flesh, its multiple arms sshing like scythes through butter.

  It dismantled my character in seconds, a brutal, one-sided evisceration that left me staring at the screen in stunned silence.

  "Heh... how do I manage to get raped even in a game." I muttered under my breath, a dark chuckle escaping as my Tarnished crumpled lifelessly into the shallow, rippling puddle below, the water's surface distorting with faint crimson blooms.

  For a split second, my mind drifted back to those shadowed memories—the raw pain, the viotion, the chaos that had reshaped everything—but I shook my head sharply, banishing them like smoke. That was the past.

  I pressed on through the dim, echoing cave of the Stranded Graveyard, my Tarnished's torch flickering against jagged stone walls slick with moisture, casting long, wavering shadows that danced like specters.

  The air in the game felt oppressively close, filled with the distant drip of water and the guttural snarls of patrolling undead soldiers—rotting husks in tattered armor that I dispatched with precise thrusts and rolls, my heart pounding in rhythm with the controller's subtle vibrations.

  Finally, the fog wall parted, revealing the arena: a vast, crumbling pit bathed in faint blue light filtering from cracks above.

  There he stood—the Soldier of Godrick, a towering brute in gleaming pte mail, his massive sword gleaming with cruel intent, Godrick's sigil embzoned on his helm like a mark of divine mockery.

  I squared up, fingers slick with sweat on the controller, parrying his sweeping overheads with desperate timing—cngs of steel on steel reverberating through my headphones—but his relentless combos broke through, his boot stomping me into the dirt, sword cleaving my character apart in a spray of digital blood.

  I let out a frustrated groan, slumping back in my chair as the "You Died" screen faded in with its mocking chime, then waited to respawn.

  Gritting my teeth, I charged in once more, dodging his whirlwind spins and nding a few greedy stabs, but again, the bastard dismantled me—his final plunging attack shattering my guard and sending my Tarnished crumpling in a heap.

  "I told you," Car purred from behind me, her voice ced with wicked amusement. She lounged on the bed like a queen on her throne, sheets tangled around her bare legs, one hand propping her chin as she watched my futile struggles with sparkling eyes, her ughter bubbling just beneath the surface.

  "I can do it, I know I can," I growled defiantly, adrenaline surging as I dove back in for a third attempt.

  This time, I poured everything into it—perfect parries chaining into ripostes, fsks chugged mid-combo—but his unyielding aggression wore me down, sword after sword burying me in defeat.

  "Okay, fuck this game then," I snarled, smming the alt+F4 keys and clicking off the uncher with exaggerated force.

  I spun my creaky chair around, coming face-to-face with Car doubled over in bed, her melodic ughter spilling out unrestrained, shoulders shaking as tears of mirth glistened in her eyes.

  "Poor baby..." Car cooed softly, her voice a warm, velvet murmur as I unched myself onto the bed beside her.

  She shifted immediately, rolling toward me with effortless grace, her strong arms enveloping me like a living cocoon. Her fingers threaded gently through my hair, stroking in slow, soothing circles while her other hand pressed against the small of my back, pulling me flush against the soft heat of her body.

  "I was gonna give you a handy if you kept struggling like that," she teased, the words dripping with pyful mischief, her lips brushing the shell of my ear.

  I didn't answer—just sank deeper into her embrace, burying my face between the generous swell of her breasts.

  The familiar scent of her skin—warm vanil, gun oil and sunlight—flooded my senses. My breath came in shallow, ragged puffs against her cleavage, each exhale stirring the fine downy hairs there.

  "I love being in this pce," I murmured, voice muffled against her flesh. I tilted my head just enough to press a slow, lingering kiss to the curve of her left breast, tasting the faint salt of her skin, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat beneath my lips.

  She let out a soft, contented hum, her fingers tightening briefly in my hair. Then, after a beat of comfortable silence, she spoke again, tone shifting to something brighter, more conspiratorial.

  "Hey, Miguel... how about I show you around my mom's pueblo?"

  The suggestion caught me off guard. I'd been perfectly content to melt into the mattress and never move again, but the idea of fresh air—of seeing something new through her eyes—sparked a flicker of curiosity beneath the post-game frustration. Movement suddenly sounded... good. Necessary, even.

  "Uh, yeah... sure," I said, pushing myself up onto my elbows to meet her gaze. Her dark eyes sparkled with quiet excitement, corners crinkling in that way that always made my chest tighten.

  "Perfect."

  She disentangled herself with fluid efficiency and swung her long legs over the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped and rose as she stood, every motion deliberate and powerful.

  She crossed to the walk-in closet in three strides, the muscles in her back shifting beneath smooth olive skin like coiled ropes beneath silk. From a high shelf she pulled two tactical vests—bck, lightweight, reinforced with discreet Kevr panels—and tossed one to me.

  "Just in case," she muttered, half to herself, as she shrugged into hers. The vest settled over her broad shoulders like it had been tailored for her—which it probably had.

  I nodded, sitting up fully and strapping mine on. The unfamiliar weight pressed reassuringly against my ribs, a quiet reminder of the world outside this room.

  "I'll go tell them to get the helicopter ready," she said, already moving toward the door.

  Her tall, muscur frame filled the doorway for a moment—shoulders squared, hips swaying with predatory confidence—before she disappeared down the hall, leaving the faint scent of her behind like a signature.

  I sat there on the rumpled sheets, vest snug against my chest, staring at the empty doorway.

  "She's perfect."

  —