The full body mirror glistened under the soft light.
"No more keloids," the doctor said gently. "We're at 85% scar invisibility now. Most people won't notice a thing."
Sera nodded once. Slipped her clothes back on. Said nothing.
She touched her wrists through the sleeve of her turtleneck. Then higher—fingers resting just above her collarbone, where the fabric stayed tight against her skin.
The doctor watched her quietly.
"You don't have to wear those anymore," she said, nodding toward the high neckline. "Most of the damage is gone."
Sera didn't look up. Just reached into her bag, pulled out a thick envelope, and placed it on the tray.
"NDA," she said.
The doctor took it without a word.
"Thank you for all your help," Sera added.
"You've come far," the doctor replied.
Sera left without answering.
—
In the car, she sat in silence. The city passed her window in streaks of glass and chrome.
Three years. Since the last time.
She opened her phone.
Tapped once.
The screen lit up.
Missed call from Derek Callahan. Again.
Her thumb hovered over the name.
Then: tap. A secret link opens his SNS.
One photo. Then another.
A man. Smiling. Holding a champagne glass. And standing beside him—his wife in a soft dress, her hand holding up a sonogram.
"Finally pregnant," the caption read.
Sera stared at the screen.
Said nothing.
She touched her neck again.
The fabric shifted under her fingers, soft cotton stretched over skin that still remembered too much.
Her breath hitched.
Then the memory hit harder.
Flash.
He's shouting. Slamming a door. Her voice—too small.
His hand grabbing her wrist. The other pulling her hair back. A slap. A kiss—violent. Disgust wrapped in hunger. Her lip split open against porcelain.
He flips her around. Slams her into the sink.
You like this, don't you?
She bleeds. He enters her.
Then the collar. Cold steel wrapped around her throat.
A click. A hum.
Then heat.
Not fire. Not boiling. But enough pain to leave a scar that never quite healed.
Her eyes flew open.
She forced herself to breathe.
One beat. Then another.
Focus.
She opened another photo.
A different man.
Ryden.
One shot from when he was nineteen. Slimmer. Sharp eyes. Arrogant posture. A boyish, naughty grin that didn't care what people thought.
Then another. Five years later.
Eyes still sharp. Shoulders broader. Stronger. But his demeanor looks more restrained.
Her screen blinked.
[Assignment Accepted by: Kamakura, Ryden]
Good.
He's in play.
She tapped the session bill.
[TRANSFER: [REDACTED] CREDITS]
Done.
Another message came through.
His contact info.
She stared at the screen for a second.
Then hit call.
3 rings.
A soft click.
Then static.
Then—
"Hey."
She hears his voice crackle through her earpiece for the first time. Deep. Like he just got out of bed.
It made her heart pound. Hard.
"Ryden Kamakura," Sera said.
"Miss Shaw."
His voice came through low and steady—like he always knew what he was doing.
"You'll call me by my name," she said curtly.
A half-beat pause. Then:
"Sera."
He said it like he'd already practiced it. Smooth. Measured. No hesitation.
Her stomach flipped.
She sat a little straighter.
"You've read my requirements?"
"Yes."
His tone stayed even. Confident.
She should have ended the call there.
But she didn't.
"I want to see you before the session."
A beat.
"That's in a week," Ryden said, not challenging her—just stating the obvious. "I'm still prepping."
"It's not a session," she replied quickly. "Just a… face check."
A pause. Subtle.
"Face check." Ryden repeated.
"To make sure we're visually compatible..."
(A reason she invented on the spot.)
"I already cleared it with the handler."
(She hadn't.)
Ryden didn't respond right away.
Her throat felt tight. One hand drifted to her neck—right where the scar sat, covered but never quite forgotten.
She didn't know why she called so soon.
It wasn't standard. It wasn't protocol.
But her fingers had moved on their own.
Dialed before she'd even fully thought it through.
Curiosity.
Too quick. Too impulsive. But there now.
Finally, Ryden spoke.
"Alright. When and where?"
She gave him the name of the private bar. Top floor. Members only.
She hadn't used it in years.
"Tomorrow night. 9 PM."
"I'll be there," he said.
The call ended.
She sat still.
The phone hung in her hand, screen black.
She looked down and noticed her fingers—immaculately polished, perfectly steady in meetings—were trembling.
She folded them together and pressed her palms tight, until the shake stopped.
Then she looked at his photo again.
And made the call.
"Dream Inc., what can I do for you, Miss Shaw?"
"Slight change of plans," she said.