Most of my sluts never hear my voice. Worms like you only earn that privilege once you’ve bled five figures and proven you’re worth contaminating my air for thirty seconds. Number 9 hadn’t earned a single breath. He was just another trembling nobody on my spreadsheet, another blinking cursor I owned more than he owned his own thoughts.

Day 148 of permanent Digital Observation. PC, webcam, mobile. 24/7. He breathes because I let him. His screen went black. No warning. No greeting. Just my pop-up in blood-red letters informing him his pathetic “personal computer” now belonged to me. Control revoked. Willpower irrelevant.

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