The masked woman surveyed the scene – the melted chains, the blood-smeared sword, Aiko's unmarked skin.
Her voice emerged cold. "Report."
"Th-the prisoner used witchcraft!" Kuroda jabbed a trembling finger at Aiko. "Healed herself! Attacked us! She said it was her... her 'Kami-sama'!"
The masked woman backhanded him without turning. Kuroda's head snapped sideways, blood dripping from his split lip.
"Failure." She tilted her head toward Aiko. "Bind her. The client wants inspection before purchase."
Aiko scrambled for the sword, but a guard stomped on her wrist. Another slammed a wooden baton across her shoulders.
She collapsed, gasping, as they trussed her hands behind her back with coarse rope.
The masked woman leaned close, her demon mask inches from Aiko's face.
"No more tricks. The only kami here is profit." She nodded to her men. "Prep her."
The guards dragged her upright, tearing her already tattered shirt.
The masked woman's gloved hand gripped Aiko's chin, forcing her to meet the hollow eyes of the demon mask.
"You've caused enough trouble tonight. The client paid upfront. If you resist again…" She gestured to the guards. "…we'll carve you into pieces and sell them separately."
Michael's phone buzzed again.
[WARNING! Companion's Willpower at critical levels!]
"Gimme a fucking break!"
Michael wanted to throw his phone onto the hospital wall.
The screen glared up at him—Aiko's pale face trapped between armored men, her wrists bound with rope. He jammed his thumb against the power button until the screen went black.
"Stupid. So stupid," he muttered. His remaining arm trembled. One thousand dollars left. One thousand between him and sleeping on the streets once the hospital booted him out. And he'd blown $40 on digital samurai girl microtransactions.
The heart monitor beeped steadily beside him. Outside, dawn light seeped through grimy windows. He'd been up all night.
Had any of it been real? Some elaborate AI scam?
His finger traced the phantom itch where his left arm used to be.
He grabbed the phone again, holding the power button.
The screen stays dark. Dead. Good. Let it rot. He shoved it under his pillow and stared at the water-stained ceiling.
Sleep. He needed sleep.
But when he closed his eyes, he saw Aiko's cracked lips, the way her hands had shaken holding that sword. The hollow look in her eye when the guards laughed.
Not your problem. She's pixels. Just some code posing as human to bleed your wallet dry.
Michael threw his pillow across the room. It hit the heart monitor with a dull thud, sending the machine into a frantic beep.
A nurse's voice crackled through the intercom: "Everything alright in there?"
"Peachy," he growled, slumping back.
The clock read 6:03 AM. Sunlight stabbed through broken blinds.
He grabbed the hospital laptop, fingers jabbing the touchpad.
The screen flickered to life. He didn't want to think about samurai girls or bills or the throbbing ghost ache in his missing arm.
The browser autocompleted to a site he loved visited pre-accident—a social media site that featured all his glorious moments: striking out eight in a row, getting his first no-hitter, and him holding that championship trophy surrounded by his teammates.
Now, its existence was nothing but a sick joke on his cursed life.
Still, he clicked blindly. Numbness was the goal. Anything that let him forget that stupid game helps.
A notification popped up:
[Tyler (@TMTheCatcherUT22): Hey man, heard you're still recovering from that surgery. Coupla guys wanna visit. Let us know when's good.]
[Tyler (@TMTheCatcherUT22): Will bring BURRITOS from that place you like. Smells insane.]
[Tyler (@TMTheCatcherUT22): Also, need to deliver envelope from the fundraiser. Coach says hi.]
Michael's stomach growled. Hospital food was barely edible, and the vending machine downstairs had been broken since last Thursday. His mouth watered at the thought of his favorite burrito.
But accepting that food meant accepting their pity. Letting them see him like this—one-armed, greasy-haired, trapped in a bed that stank of defeat.
He typed a reply with his thumb about it wasn't still convenient with all that physical therapy stuff, yet before he could send it, His phone vibrated.
What the—
He remembered he powered it off.
It turned on by itself?
There's no—?!
The phone vibrated again.
Once. Twice. A relentless buzz that drilled into his skull.
"No," he growled, yanking it out. The screen blazed to life without him pressing anything.
Aiko filled the screen—now stripped to ragged undergarments, her body limbs each tied to a wooden post of an elaborate, luxurious bed.
Screw this.
Screw this too realistic looking gotcha shit weaponizing his empathy against his will.
Michael tapped the "home" button to return to the main page on his phone.
His thumb hovered over the app's icon, then stabbed the delete icon over and over.
Nothing happened. He tried uninstalling, force-stopping, even Googling "how to remove virus apps." Every search is redirected to error pages.
A new notification pulsed:
[Companion Bond: 100% Sync]
[Soul Tether Locked. Termination Impossible.]
"What does that even mean?!" Michael hissed.
The screen flashed. Now it showed a close-up of Aiko's face. Dirt smeared her cheek. A fresh cut bled above her eyebrow.
Her lips moved soundlessly, but he read the word clear as day:
"Kami-sama."
Michael's thumb hovered over the phone's power button, pressing until his nail turned white.
The screen stays lit, Aiko's face frozen in silent pleading. Her split lip glistened under torchlight, a bead of blood sliding down her chin.
"Stop," he muttered. "Just… stop."
Aiko's image sharpened, pulling him into a dimly lit room.
Silk curtains hung from cedar beams, their gold embroidery glinting in the light of paper lanterns. The air smelled heavily of incense and something sour—sake, maybe. Aiko lay spread-eagled on a canopied bed, wrists and ankles bound to posts with red silk ropes. Her torn undergarments left little to the imagination, and Michael quickly averted his eyes, heat rising to his face.
"This isn't real," he told the cockroach now perched on his bedside lamp. "Deepfake. CGI. Whatever."
But the details clawed at him—the goosebumps on Aiko's arms, the way her chest hitched with each shallow breath.
The door slid open with a whisper.
A man entered, his silk robes embroidered with cobalt waves. Middle-aged, with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes like cold river stones. He carried himself with the lazy confidence of someone who'd never been told "no."
Aiko's bindings creaked as she strained against them.
The man circled the bed, appraising her like a horse at auction. "Minamoto Aiko," he said in Japanese.
"A princess… now a whore."
Aiko stiffened.
He smiled, tracing a finger along her branded shoulder. "You tried to kill him, and was caught red-handed. So, here you are—his precious daughter, reduced to a Teahouse slattern."
"I didn't… Don't speak his name," Aiko hissed.
WHACK!
The man backhanded her. The crack echoed through Michael's phone speakers.
[WARNING! Companion About to Commit Suicide by Biting Off Her Tongue!]
Michael's remaining hand clenched.
The app responded with a pulsing menu:
[INTERVENE NOW?]
[Special Package that'd See Aiko to Safety!]
[Limited Time Offering: - $49.99!]
[Expires in 00:00:09]
[Expires in 00:00:08]
[Expires in 00:00:07]