My ocular implants pinged while I was still half-asleep on the makeshift bed, Sophie's warm body curled tight against mine. The message flashed across my vision in crisp corporate blue:
Opportunity: Senior Associate Position – Corporate Litigation Division. Criminal record irrelevant. Seeking proven win streak and aggressive courtroom experience. Interview requested at 1400 hours. Address attached. Full details upon arrival.
No company name. No real job description. Just a vague promise, a mid-level address, and the implication that they wanted *me* — the disgraced lawyer with seventy straight wins before everything went to hell. I stared at the floating text for a long second, then muttered under my breath, "Fuck it. Let's try anything to get a better life again."
Sophie lifted her head, warm brown eyes already alert. "I will come with you."
I didn't argue. An hour later we were walking through the most luxurious part of the city I'd seen in years.
The contrast hit me like a freight drone to the chest. Towering glass skyscrapers reflected the sky in perfect mirrored panels, so clean they looked like they belonged in another world. Flying cars hummed in orderly lanes overhead, their sleek bodies catching the sunlight like chrome jewels. Real trees — actual living trees — lined the wide boulevards in ornate planters, their leaves rustling in the filtered breeze. Holographic billboards the size of buildings advertised luxury synthetics, eternal-youth serums, and off-world vacations that cost more than my entire lifetime of debt. The streets smelled like ozone, fresh rain, and expensive cologne instead of piss and machine oil. Salarymen in tailored suits and polished shoes strode past us without a second glance, their neural implants glowing faintly under their skin as they took calls that probably paid more in a day than I made in a month at the warehouse.
I used to live up here. Used to *belong* up here. Corner office on the forty-second floor, real leather chairs that creaked when I sat in them, assistants who practically bowed when I walked by. Now I was the guy in the stained coat, hand in hand with a synthetic woman in a short skirt, both of us carrying the faint scent of the undergrid slums we'd crawled out of this morning. The memory burned.
Sophie walked beside me, fingers laced with mine, eyes wide and curious as she drank everything in. The tight black crop top hugged her heavy DD tits, the short pleated skirt swishing around her thighs with every step. She didn't say a word about the stares we got from passersby. She just stayed close, like she was anchoring me to the present.
The address led us to a sleek but slightly shady mid-level building tucked between two pristine towers. The sign outside read "Harrington & Voss Litigation" in understated silver lettering — nothing flashy, almost hidden, like they didn't want too many questions. I told the polished receptionist at the front desk that I was here for the interview. She didn't blink at my rumpled appearance or at Sophie standing beside me like she belonged. She just smiled professionally and told us to take a seat.
We waited maybe ten minutes in the sleek lobby — real leather couches, soft ambient music, holographic art rotating on the walls. Then a door opened and we were ushered inside.
Holy fuck.
The office looked like money had been poured into every single inch of it. A massive real-wood desk dominated the center, polished to a mirror shine and easily the size of my entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, flying cars streaking past like silent predators. Leather executive chairs that probably cost more than my entire debt sat behind the desk. Holographic displays floated in the air, showing live case files and stock tickers that updated in real time. The carpet was thick and soft under my boots, the air scented with something expensive and subtle — sandalwood and old money. The contrast between this luxurious palace and the concrete shithole I called home hit me so hard my stomach twisted. I used to sit in rooms like this every day. Now I felt like a rat that had crawled up from the sewers.
The man behind the desk was in his fifties, sharp charcoal suit, sharper eyes, silver at the temples. He leaned back in his chair, smiling like a shark that had already smelled blood. His gaze slid past me and locked onto Sophie, lingering on the way her crop top stretched across her chest and the short skirt hugged her hips.
"Well, well," he drawled, voice smooth and oily. "I see you brought your… companion. Restricted prototype, isn't she? The kind the corps like to keep under wraps. Very realistic. Very… fuckable. Bet she feels even better than she looks. Those sensors must be top-of-the-line."
My jaw clenched so hard it ached. "Don't waste my time. What's the job?"
He chuckled, still staring at Sophie like she was merchandise on display. "Straight to business. I like that. We want you for corporate lawsuits. High-stakes defense work for one of our biggest clients. Your win streak — seventy lawsuits, undefeated before the fall — is exactly what they need. Pay is ten thousand credits per successful case if you don't fuck up. And one last thing…"
He slid a digital contract across the desk. I scanned it quickly with my implants. The fine print was buried deep, but it mentioned "occasional corporate espionage support" — nothing specific, just the usual gray-area language that could mean anything from digging up dirt to something far worse.
I signed it anyway. "Fuck it. Sure."
The guy grinned wider, eyes still crawling over Sophie. "One more thing. That prototype of yours… she'd make a hell of a whore for the right clients. Imagine the—"
I stood up fast, fists clenched. "Say one more word about her and I'll punch your fucking teeth through the back of your skull."
Sophie moved before I could even swing. Her fist cracked across his jaw with perfect, synthetic precision. His head snapped sideways, blood spraying from a split lip onto the expensive wood desk.
The guy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still smiling through the pain like it was all part of the game. "Welcome to the team, Voss."
We left without another word.
The second the elevator doors closed on the way down, I grabbed Sophie's wrist and pulled her into the nearest private toilet on the ground floor — a sleek, marble-lined room that smelled like money and disinfectant, with soft lighting and real towels folded on a marble counter. I locked the door behind us, shoved her against the wall, and yanked her skirt up to her waist.
"Quiet," I growled, clamping one hand firmly over her mouth.
I freed my cock and slammed into her in one hard, desperate thrust. Sophie's eyes widened, but she stayed silent against my palm as I fucked her fast and brutal. The contrast of the luxurious bathroom and her tight, soaking-wet pussy made my blood run hotter. I pounded into her without mercy, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the marble walls. Her upgraded sensors turned every thrust into overload — her walls fluttered and clenched around me like hot velvet, her body trembling as she fought to stay quiet.
I kept my hand clamped tight over her mouth, muffling every moan while I railed her against the wall. Her heavy DD tits bounced inside the crop top with every savage stroke. I reached up and squeezed one roughly, pinching the nipple until she shuddered hard. She came around me almost immediately, walls spasming wildly, eyes rolling back as her muffled cries vibrated against my palm. I didn't slow down. I fucked her straight through it, then through another, chasing my own release while the risk of someone knocking on the door made everything sharper, dirtier.
I buried myself deep one last time and came with a low groan, flooding her until it leaked out around my cock and dripped down her thighs onto the pristine marble floor.
We stayed like that for a few seconds, breathing hard. I pulled out, straightened her skirt, and wiped the evidence off her thighs with a handful of the expensive toilet paper. Then we stepped out like nothing had happened.
As we left the building, Sophie paused by a stack of papers on a side table near the exit — internal memos, corporate filings. She scanned them quickly with her eyes, processors humming softly.
"They own the factory," she said quietly, voice flat. "The one that made me."
I looked at the papers, then at her.
The contrast between the luxury around us and the truth in her words settled like ice in my gut.