I pulled up to the spot and killed the engine. The night was cold and windy, the kind where the streetlights flicker like they are too tired to keep shining. I stepped out and looked around.

The bowling salon across the street was still open, music leaking through the glass. To the right, shops lined the block, all closed. Only one apartment building stood at the end of the row. Old. Ugly. A place that looked like it never received sunlight.

I walked toward it.

Because the wind was so heavy, the old metal door didn't shut all the way. It clanged with every gust. I easily slipped in.

No elevator. Just narrow stairs that creaked under my shoes.

Door five. End of the corridor. Emilia's place.

My heartbeat picked up. Excited. Nervous. A little sick. This was the closest I had ever been to Guy's actual secrets.

I exhaled, knocked three times, and immediately went down the stairs, hiding in the shadow where the wall curved.

The door opened.

Emilia stepped out, eyes scanning the empty hallway.

Time to move.

I activated Time Stop.

╭────────────────────╮

- SHOP

==========================

• Aphrodisiac Drink (10c)

• Silk Lingerie Set (25c)

• Sensual Massage Oil (15c)

• Mystery Pleasure Toy (30c)

• Flirt Potion (20c)

• Hypnotic Perfume (40c)

• Time Stop (90c)

• 500 Dollars (50c)

• 1 Ability Point (150c)

• 1 Mastery Point (160c)

==========================

- Credits: 250c

- Select item to purchase.

╰────────────────────╯

The whole world froze. Emilia froze with one foot outside her doorway, hair stuck mid-sway, eyes half narrowed like she was about to call someone's name.

I stepped up the hallway and finally got a good look at her.

Long black hair. Sharp face. Sharp eyes. The kind of woman who always looks like she is judging whoever stands in front of her. Big chest, pushing against her thin pajamas. Bare feet on the grimy apartment tiles.

She looked mean even when frozen in time. Fitting, because Charlotte said Emilia was the real heartless one. Guy used people, but Emilia? She enjoyed it.

Her phone was in her hand, but not the one I needed. This one was modern. Touch screen. Pretty. Charlotte told me the real dirt was in Emilia's old phone, the ancient one with actual buttons. Guy didn't trust clouds or encryption. Paranoid bastard.

I checked her pockets. Nothing.

So I stepped inside.

The apartment smelled like old dust and cheap detergent. The living room was basically a square with a tiny couch shoved in the corner. A small table with stains. A TV that looked older than me. A plastic shelf full of random things that looked like she never used them. Beige walls with peeling corners. A single lamp flickering like it wanted to die.

Not a place for someone who once lived off Guy's wallet. Guess Guy threw her away too.

I started searching.

I opened the first drawer under the TV. Nothing but receipts and some cigarettes. The second drawer had loose batteries, a spoon, and some keys that probably didn't open anything anymore. I checked behind the couch, under the couch, under the small rug.

Nothing.

Time Stop ticked in the back of my head. I didn't know how long I had left.

I moved down the short hallway to the bedroom.

The door was half open.

Inside, the room looked even worse. A single bed pushed against the wall. Blanket half thrown off. Clothes everywhere. A mirror cracked at the top. A tiny dresser with one drawer missing. A chair with more clothes on it. Posters of some K-pop group taped unevenly on the wall.

I stepped carefully, trying not to kick anything.

I checked the dresser first. Socks. Underwear. A deodorant. Makeup bags. I dug through all of it. No phone.

I crouched and checked under the bed. Dust, two mismatched shoes, a tissue box, and an old hairbrush.

Still nothing.

I opened the closet. A mess of shirts and dresses hung unevenly. I patted every pocket I could reach. No phone.

I checked the closet shelf above the hangers. Empty. Nothing but dust and a forgotten scarf. Fuck.

I dug deeper, fingers scraping the back of the shelf, then dropped to my knees, yanking open drawers. Socks, underwear, random cables—nothing. My pulse hammered. Ten minutes almost up… no. It was up.

Damn it.

The front door clicked. Emilia's voice, low and muttering, drifted through the walls. "Fucking pranksters."

I couldn't waste credits on Time Stop. I held my breath, slid the drawer shut, and threw myself under the bed, flattening against the cool floorboards.

Her footsteps approached slowly. The door creaked open. I watched her heels first: black, glossy, stiletto-sharp. Then her legs, long and smooth, wrapped in sheer stockings that caught the light. She stopped at the mirror, tilted her head, and swiped crimson lipstick across full lips. Her reflection stared back: sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, hair pulled into a severe ponytail now.

She peeled off her clothes. Her body was bare except for the stockings and a black lace thong that vanished between firm, round cheeks. She turned, admiring her naked curves in the mirror: full breasts swaying slightly, nipples already hard, hips flared, skin flawless.

Then she opened the wardrobe.

Out came the… the weird stuff: a gleaming black leather corset, thigh-high boots with silver buckles, a harness that crisscrossed her torso, and a collar with a silver ring. She stepped into the boots first, zipping them slow, the leather hugging her calves. Then the corset, cinching it tight until her waist looked impossibly small and her breasts were pushed up like an offering. She fastened the harness last, the straps creaking as they settled over her skin. She looked like sin poured into armor.

Shit, now someone was at the door. Knocking on it. Who was it?

Emilia left the room with the small black object in hand, the door clicking shut behind her. Seconds later, she reappeared in the doorway, leash taut, dragging a middle-aged man on all fours. His balding head glistened with sweat, tongue lolling like a dog's, eyes glassy with humiliation. The leather collar bit into his neck, leash clipped tight.

"Sit."

He dropped to his haunches, hands curled like paws.

"Roll over."

He flopped onto his back, belly exposed, pants tented obscenely.

"Paw."

He lifted a trembling hand, whimpering.

"Now suck my ass, you fat pig."

She kicked him square in the face—crack—his head snapped back, sprawling. Without pause, she yanked her thong aside, crouched, and sat on his face. Thighs clamped his skull. His muffled grunts vibrated against her as she opened her phone, thumb swiping through a candy-matching game like he didn't exist.

"Don't move," she muttered, eyes on the screen. "Be fucking quiet. Eat my ass, you fat fuck."

The man's hips jerked. His cock strained, a dark wet spot blooming on his khakis. He was cumming—hands-free, twitching, spilling into his pants like a broken faucet. Emilia didn't flinch. She just ground down harder, scrolling.

Minutes dragged. She'd lift slightly, let him gasp, then drop again. "Lick deeper, pig."

He obeyed, tongue frantic, face smeared with her. Another spurt—his second orgasm, weaker, but still leaking.

She laughed, cold. "Already? Again? Pathetic."

She stood, turned, and spat on his face. "Open that mouth."

He opened. She hawked again, thick and nasty.

"Swallow."

He did, gagging, cock twitching again.

She grabbed a riding crop from the drawer—snap—across his belly. Red welts rose instantly.

"Beg."

"Please, Mistress… more…"

Snap. Thighs. Snap. Chest. Each strike made him jolt, another pathetic dribble soaking through.

She made him crawl, nose to the floor, following her boot prints. "Sniff."

He sniffed, panting, humping the air.

She stepped on his back, heel digging in. "Stay."

He froze, trembling, another orgasm rippling through him—his fourth, just from the pressure.

She opened the drawer again—panties spilling out—and I spotted it: a small, ancient flip phone, black, tucked beneath lace. The target.

She pulled out a dog bowl, filled it with water from the bathroom, set it down. "Drink like the animal you are."

He lapped, sloppy, water splashing his shirt. She filmed it on her main phone, smirking.

"This goes to your wife if you're late again."

Another ten minutes came by and… he came again—fifth time—hands-free, moaning into the bowl.

She made him recite: "I'm a worthless pay-pig." Over and over, voice cracking, cock still leaking.

Half an hour of this—whatever this thing was. She'd ignore him for minutes, playing her game, then snap the crop, spit, grind. He came nonstop, six, seven, eight times, each weaker, just clear fluid now, staining his pants dark. His face was a mess: spit, tears, her juices. He thanked her after every orgasm, voice hoarse.

I lay under the bed, stomach turning. Disgusting. The way he groveled, came from nothing, begged for more. No dignity. Just a wallet with a pulse.

After about thirty minutes, her phone alarm beeped.

She stood, crossed her arms. "Give me my five hundred and fuck off."

He fumbled in his pocket, hands shaking, pulled out a wad of cash. "Th-thank you, Mistress."

"Safe word. Mold. The session has ended. It's my pleasure, sir," she said, voice flat, professional.

"Wow," I whispered under the bed. "Fucking professional, eh?"

They left the room. I rolled out fast, heart pounding.

Drawer open—panties everywhere. I shoved them aside, fingers closing around the flip phone.

"Fuck yes."

I slipped behind the bedroom door just as the handle turned. Too late to hide anywhere else. Emilia stepped in. She crossed to the wardrobe, back to me, and pulled out soft cotton pajamas—shorts and a loose tank.

I held my breath, slid past the gap in the door, silent as a shadow, and eased into the hallway. Heart hammering.

Living room. Her main phone sat on the couch, screen dark.

"Fuck, I forgot my phone," she muttered from the bedroom.

I dropped behind the opposite couch, knees on the rug, body pressed low.

Emilia padded in, bare feet silent, completely naked. Her breasts swayed with each step, nipples still hard, thighs glistening faintly. She scanned the room, humming under her breath.

She moved left—I shifted right, sliding along the couch's edge, keeping it between us. She bent over the coffee table, ass toward me, cheeks parting slightly. I froze, pulse in my throat.

She turned—I rolled to the side, staying in her blind spot, breath shallow.

She circled the couch. I mirrored, crawling low, the flip phone clutched tight in my fist.

She stopped, crouched… and finally found it.

"There you are."

I exhaled, slow and silent, as her footsteps retreated to the bedroom.

Minutes later, the bathroom door clicked shut. Water hissed—shower.

I was already gone, out the front door, into the night air.

The old flip phone weighed heavy in my hand.

"Let's see," I muttered, flipping it open. "What kind of dirt I've got on you, Guy."

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