A slap echoed through the atrium, sharp as a judge's gavel. For a second the world narrowed to pain and perfume and a woman's scream—"Mistress!" My cheek burned. I tasted metal. I blinked and stared at the intruding woman, at the silk dress clinging to her like a practiced lie. She held me by the wrist with a grip that didn't tremble. Someone's training. Not shock. Not tears. Practice. "Let go," I said. My voice was small and ridiculous in a space built for shopping sprees and viral videos. She smiled. The smile said: this will be quick. The smile said: you'll be embarrassed and the feed will die with your humiliation. A crowd gathered fast. People live for spectacle in Harbor City. Phones rose in unison. Neon and glass reflected ten thousand cheap cameras. A child pointed. A businessman wrung his tie and filmed. My stomach did a small, blessed flip. The only thing I wanted right then was for this to be unmissable. The woman barked, "Come on, Lily. We're going." She called me Lily. She had practiced the voice of possession. I let my eyes slide to the jewel on her finger: a heavy band, too shiny, set off-center. Fake weight. My palms prickled. A memory scraped the back of my skull—one forum post, late at night, a thread about "mistress plays" used as cover for abduction. A woman leading another by the wrist, a confused onlooker made