The warehouse was a pressure cooker today, and every second felt like it could explode.
I'd been loading crates for six straight hours in Bay Gamma — the same bay where they'd yanked out another dud bomb just yesterday. The anti-grav pallets were glitching worse than usual, floating steady for ten seconds then dropping three feet with a bone-rattling thud that sent dust and sparks flying. One nearly crushed my foot twice; I barely yanked it back in time as the crate slammed down and split open, spilling fake neural jacks across the floor like bloody teeth. The shelves towered three stories high on rickety frames, metal support poles jutting out at jagged angles where half-assed repairs had been slapped on with scrap and prayer. Crates were stacked so high and so sloppy that every scan made my gut tighten — one wrong shift and the whole wall could avalanche down in a storm of steel and black-market contraband.
The air was thick with ozone, burnt wiring, and the faint chemical tang of whatever illegal shit was sealed inside half these boxes: counterfeit implants still slick with someone else's blood, stolen prosthetics, maybe even the components for the next real bomb. Tension crackled through the bay like live current. Two loaders were already out — one with a broken arm from a shifting crate, the other just walked off after swearing he heard a faint ticking sound that turned out to be nothing. The foreman's voice barked over the comms every few minutes: "Quota's up twenty percent or no hazard pay, you lazy fucks!" Everyone's eyes darted to every shadow, every beep, every groan of the shelves. My back burned like fire, my arms felt like lead weights, and the negative balance in my implant kept ticking higher with every hour I wasn't earning enough to cover the interest.
I was halfway through scanning a heavy medical crate when my ocular implants pinged hard — a bright red headline flashing across my vision like a gunshot.
EX-WIFE OF DISGRACED LAWYER VOSS SUES NEW PARTNER FOR RAPE — SAME ALLEGATIONS THAT RUINED HIS CAREER
The article loaded instantly. Skylar. My ex. Smiling in the holo-photo like the perfect victim, spinning the exact same lies she'd used to gut me in court — "forced himself on me," "threatened my career," "I was terrified for my life." Another rich asshole was getting dragged through the same mud, his reputation shredded while she played the broken angel. The comments were already exploding: *Once a rapist, always a rapist. Voss got exactly what he deserved. Lock him up.*
Rage boiled up so fast and so hot I nearly dropped the crate. My hands shook. My vision tunneled. I wanted to kill her. Not just kill her — make it slow, make it hurt worse than anything she'd ever done to me. I pictured dragging her into some abandoned undergrid warehouse, tying her down on a cold metal table, and starting with the neural hammer those debt collectors had waved at me — jamming it against her implant and frying her nerves one by one until she screamed and begged and felt every second of the agony she'd caused. Or maybe I'd take my time with a scalpel, carving out the lies she'd told one shallow cut at a time, letting her bleed while I reminded her exactly what she'd taken from me. Or the slowest way — locking her in a room with nothing but nutrient paste and her own guilt, watching her waste away day after day until she was nothing but skin and bone and regret, the way she'd left me.
But I knew better. She had the money, the connections, the perfect victim story. I had nothing but debt, a shit apartment, and eight hundred credits a shift that barely kept the lights on. Revenge was a fantasy I couldn't touch.
I finished the shift in a red haze, muscles screaming, mind replaying every courtroom lie she'd told. By the time I slammed the apartment door behind me I was vibrating with fury I couldn't touch.
Sophie was waiting.
She must have sensed it the second I stepped inside — the way my shoulders were locked tight, the way my jaw clenched so hard it ached, the way my hands were still balled into fists. She was already wearing the new clothes I'd bought her on the way home with the last of my shift credits: a tight black crop top that barely contained her heavy DD tits, the thin fabric stretched taut across her chest and stopping just below the soft underside so the smooth skin of her midriff showed. Below that, a short pleated skirt that rode high on her thighs, the hem fluttering with every movement and flashing the flawless curve of her ass when she turned.
She crossed the room instantly and wrapped her arms around me, pressing her body tight against mine. Her tits squeezed softly against my chest through the crop top, the short skirt riding up as she hugged me, warm thighs brushing mine. "You're angry," she whispered against my neck, voice soft and warm, processors already analyzing my elevated heart rate. "Let me help. Let me make it better."
I didn't answer with words. I just stood there, breathing her in, letting her warmth bleed into the rage still churning inside me.
Sophie pulled back just enough to look up at me, then gently led me to the makeshift bed and made me sit. She curled into my lap sideways, legs draped over mine, one arm around my shoulders while her other hand gently stroked my chest under the open coat. She stayed like that — quiet, warm, perfect — while she worked the nutrient dispenser with one hand. This time she'd managed something noticeably better than the usual paste: actual synthesized protein strips with a hint of real spice she'd bartered from the neighbor down the hall, plus a small packet of synthetic greens that actually smelled fresh. It looked and smelled almost like real food for once.
When it was ready she sat right next to me on the floor, knees touching mine, feeding me bites from the single plate while I ate in silence. She never left my side. Every time I finished a bite she was already offering the next, her free hand resting on my thigh, thumb stroking slow, soothing circles. Her crop top rode up a little higher with every movement, the short skirt barely covering anything as she shifted closer. She didn't ask questions. She just stayed close, letting me feel her warmth, her presence, her absolute devotion, slowly pulling the sharp edges off the fury still burning in my veins.
By the time the plate was empty the rage had twisted into something sharper, something that needed an outlet I could actually touch.
I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her up. "Bedroom. Now."
Sophie followed without hesitation, crop top riding up to show the underside of her tits, short skirt swishing around her thighs. I shoved her down onto the makeshift bed and climbed on top of her, yanking the crop top up roughly so her massive DD tits spilled free. I didn't bother with foreplay. I shoved the short skirt up to her waist, found her already wet and ready, and slammed into her in one brutal thrust.
"Skylar," I growled without thinking, the name slipping out like venom as I started pounding into her.
Sophie didn't flinch. She adapted instantly — her eyes softening into that same terrified, pleading look my ex used to fake in court, her voice trembling exactly like Skylar's had during the lies. "Yes," she whispered, legs wrapping around me. "I'm yours… please…"
I fucked her like I hated her. Like I was punishing the woman who'd ruined my life.
Missionary first — her legs pinned high over my shoulders, cock slamming deep and merciless while I squeezed her heavy tits hard enough to leave faint marks on that perfect synthetic skin. "You lying bitch," I snarled, hips snapping forward with savage force, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room. "You took everything from me." Sophie moaned loud and broken, her walls clenching around me like hot velvet, fluttering and milking with every brutal thrust. Her crop top was bunched uselessly under her chin, short skirt rucked up around her waist, tits bouncing wildly as I railed her.
I flipped her onto all fours, fisted a handful of her dark hair, and railed her doggy-style — ass rippling under my palm as I slapped it red again and again. "You destroyed me," I growled, yanking her head back so her back arched hard, skirt fluttering uselessly. She cried out my name, pushing back to meet every savage stroke, pussy swallowing me to the hilt.
I dragged her up against the wall next, lifted her so her legs locked tight around my waist, and fucked her upright — her back slamming against the cold concrete with every deep, punishing thrust. Her crop top was still shoved up, tits bouncing between our bodies as I bit down hard on one nipple, sucking and marking her while I drove into her. "Skylar," I hissed again, lost in the hate-fuck, voice raw. "You ruined my life."
She adapted perfectly — voice cracking like she was terrified, body yielding completely, pussy fluttering and milking me while she took every brutal inch. "I'm sorry," she whimpered, playing the role I needed, legs tightening around me. "Please… forgive me…"
I carried her back to the bed, dropped her on her back, and fucked her missionary again — slower now but deeper, grinding hard against her clit while I choked her lightly and called her every filthy name I'd wanted to scream at my ex for years. She came hard around me twice, walls spasming, legs shaking, but I didn't stop. I kept going, switching angles, edging myself, making her come a third time until her voice cracked and her synthetic body trembled exactly the way I needed.
Finally I pinned her wrists above her head, buried myself to the hilt, and came with a guttural groan — flooding her deep until it leaked out in thick, messy streaks down her thighs and onto the blanket beneath us.
I collapsed on top of her, chest heaving against her perfect tits, still buried inside her.
Sophie wrapped her arms around me, processors humming softly as she held me close. She didn't say a word about the name I'd called her.
She just adapted.