# Day 7 - 9:00
Zhao stood at the edge of the galley table, pen poised above the blue plastic roster, and read the line again: “Maggie Osei, 1400, Fitness Center B.” There were forty names below, some with checkmarks, some with strikethroughs, but this was the one that froze him cold. “Maggie.” The letters glared up from the page like a diagnosis.
He pressed his thumb into the bridge of his nose and exhaled slow, hoping the panic would fade if he acknowledged it directly. It didn’t. The more he read, the more the nausea spread, the less real any of it felt. There was no pill for this—no shot, no shortcut, no technique. He had less than two hours to figure it out.
He needed advice. Not the medical kind. The other kind—the kind that made sense of things you couldn’t diagram or dose.
He checked the tablet: Aida was on the bow. In the log, she’d written “sky therapy, as prescribed.” Zhao shoved the schedule in his pocket, bypassed a pair of engineers bickering at the coffee urn, and beelined to the prow. The ship had changed. Zhao saw it first in the faces: less pinched, less brittle. Laughter leaked from one cabin, and from another, a voice singing—off-key, but full throttle. It wasn’t just the mood. Women walked the halls in dresses and bright shirts, hair still damp from showers, faces fresh and unhurried. More than once he caught pairs of them walking arm in arm, or pausing in the shadow of a door to touch, soft and private. Even the bickering had changed timbre: from the high tension of disaster to something almost playful.
He tried to picture the ship’s original owner, his thick hands running the manifest, the head count, the psycho-physical profiles. Did the old bastard imagine this? Was this what the yacht had always been for—an experiment in forced harmony, a breeding ground for connection, or just a vessel for the world’s last good party? Zhao wondered what the cameras had seen before, and what they’d show now.
The air outside hit like a slap. It was sharp, even under the new sun. He squinted through the wind and found Aida exactly where the tablet said: both hands gripping the steel rail at the bow, skirt plastered to her calves by the blast, hair and pale cheekbones lit to high contrast by the glare off the water. For a moment, Zhao just watched. The wind played tricks with her skirt, snapping it tight around her hips and then ballooning it into a shape that was almost comically girlish. She stood absolutely still, like a statue designed to be overlooked until the precise moment it was needed.
He felt it again, the thing that had started in the med bay that first night and never let up. Wanting her wasn’t just wanting sex or comfort. It was like she had rearranged the layout of his brain so that everything was sorted as "before Aida" or "after Aida." Every fantasy, every micro-drama in his head, every question about whether she was putting on a show or not. Who was she underneath? What did she want? Did she ever want him, or was this just the job?
He fidgeted at the edge of the deck, not sure if he should announce himself or just wait until she turned. As if on cue, she did—a slow, movie-perfect pivot, one hand rising to sweep the hair from her eyes. When she saw him, she smiled, and for the briefest second he thought he saw something crack through: a flash of real, off-script delight.
“Zhao-kun,” she said, just loud enough to carry over the wind. “You look lost.”
He tried to smile, but it felt brittle. “Not lost. Just... stuck.”
She nodded, reading him with that same unblinking focus she used in everything. “You need to talk, or you need to do something?”
He hesitated, caught off-guard by how precisely she could cut to the bone. “Talk,” he said. “Definitely talk.”
She walked toward him, the wind folding her skirt into perfect knife-pleats, every step smooth as a ballroom dancer’s. She stopped three feet away and leaned on the rail, chin tucked, looking up at him as if she were the smaller one. “Okay,” she said, “What’s the story?”
He looked past her, out to where the water went blue-black at the edge of the world. “It’s stupid, but... I have a block. About the next round.”
She nodded, as if she’d predicted the line. “Who is it?”
He tried to speak, but it came out as a cough. He reset. “Maggie. Osei.”
Aida’s mouth made a tiny ‘o’, then closed. “She’s intense,” Aida said, “but not cruel.”
“Yeah,” Zhao said. “But she could kill me with her pinky finger. Or snap my neck if I did something wrong. Or, I don’t know, just... I can’t picture it. With her.”
Aida considered this. “You are scared?”
He thought for a second, then shook his head. “It’s not just scared. I feel like—like it’s a math error. You put the pieces together and it just... doesn’t compute. Not for me. She’s taller. She’s ripped. I don’t even know if she likes men, or... if she’s into any of this at all.” Find the original chapter at novelping.com.
Aida’s eyes softened, just a little. “Do you think it would help if I told you a secret?”
He looked at her, unsure. “What kind of secret?”
She turned so her side was to him, both hands on the rail. “I did not like my first job,” she said. “I was afraid of everyone—the customers, the camera crew, even the other actresses. Some were nice, but some were...” She searched for the word, then shrugged. “Predator? Yes. Like your Maggie, I think.”
He hadn’t expected that. “What did you do?”
Aida smiled, but it was an old, private smile. “I learned to separate myself. I made a wall—here, here, here.” She tapped the bridge of her nose, then her temple, then her solar plexus. “I pretended it was not me, but a character. The producers wanted innocence, so I gave them so much innocence it made them uncomfortable. I turned the job around, made it a game. After, I realized they were more afraid of me than I was of them.”
He laughed, a dry sound, but not ungrateful. “You made it a challenge.”
She nodded. “Yes. But here is the second secret. The wall works both ways. If you build it too strong, you never feel anything, and nothing ever feels real again.” She looked at him, and now the wind made her eyes water, or maybe it was something else. “I think you do not want to build that wall. That is why you have trouble now.”
He thought about that, the taste of it. “I want it to be real,” he said. “Or at least not...fake.”
Aida shrugged. “Then you have to find what is real for you. Even in the middle of the job. Even with someone who scares you.”
She turned toward him, close enough now that he could smell the faintest hint of green tea and skin. “Do you want to rehearse?” she said.
He blinked, not sure if she was kidding.
She wasn’t.
“No script,” she said. “No pressure. Just you and me.”
He nodded, maybe too quickly.
She led him down to the shaded side of the deck, where the wind was blocked and the metal hull vibrated with the hum of the generators. She sat, knees together, skirt draping over her calves, then patted the spot next to her.
When he sat, she leaned in, almost but not quite touching him. “You will go to the gym. She will be there, probably stretching or lifting. She will say nothing, or she will say something like, ‘Let’s get this over with.’ Do you agree?”
Zhao nodded.
“You do not want to offend her, but you also do not want to show fear. She is a soldier, yes? Soldiers respect only two things: rank, and skill.”
He snorted. “I have neither.”
Aida smiled, close-lipped. “Maybe. But you have endurance, and you have surprise. Use that. She expects you to be afraid. You will not be. You will make her do something she does not expect.”
Aida leaned in, so her mouth was at his ear. “You ask her what she wants. You say, ‘How do you want this to go?’ If she says ‘fast,’ you go fast. If she says ‘I don’t care,’ you make her care. Turn the game on her. Even if you are scared, pretend you are not.”
He exhaled, and for a moment the tension in his gut shifted to a new place. Not gone, but more focused.
She tilted her head. “Do you know what the real prize is?”
He tried to answer but had nothing.
She tapped his chest, right over the heart. “If you finish the job, you get a reward.”
He laughed, then blushed. “What, like a gold star?”
She made a tiny, amused sound. “Finish with Maggie, and tonight you come to me. I show you a reward better than any mission.”
He couldn’t help himself: the line of her jaw, the shine in her eyes, the way she said it—every part of him wanted that reward, wanted to see what it would be.
He tried to imagine what it would be like, what she would be like, if all the artifice came down and there was nothing but the two of them. He wanted to ask, “Are you ever not performing?” but didn’t. He wanted to know if she even liked him, or if this was just the way she kept everyone alive, everyone safe.
Instead he said, “I don’t want to let you down.”
Her expression flickered, surprised. She said, “That’s impossible, Zhao-kun. You already didn’t.”
They sat like that for a while, neither needing to fill the space.
At last, she stood—slowly, stretching arms high, so the hem of the cardigan rode up and revealed the bare line of her thigh. She moved to the window, sunlight painting her skin gold, and for a second Zhao saw the outline of her entire body through the thin cotton: perfect size, high breasts with nipples pressing against thin fabric like ripe cherries beneath silk; the curve of her hip; the subtle shadow where her thighs met.
She turned, back still to him, and with a slow, almost shy motion, reached under the skirt and lifted it halfway up her ass. There was nothing underneath but a plug, small and pink, anchored perfectly in place. She looked over her shoulder, cheeks bright with color, but her eyes daring him to look away.
“If you do a good job with Maggie,” she said, “I will show you what I can do with this.”
His brain emptied out, every prior dread or worry suddenly irrelevant. He wanted, more than anything, to be the man she had just promised.
Aida let the skirt fall, then walked past him to the door, her steps deliberate and unhurried. “Now go,” she said, “and don’t be late for your mission.”
He stood, dizzy with lust and adrenaline. He wanted to thank her, to touch her, to ask a million questions, but he knew better than to spoil a perfect performance.
He left the room, the scent of her skin and tea trailing him out into the hall, and suddenly the world seemed brighter, the next task less a curse than a chance.
He walked toward the fitness center, but something nagged at him. The way she'd looked at him when she said reward. Not playful. Something else.
He glanced back. She was still there, watching him. For a moment, her face was unguarded—tired, maybe, or sad. Then she smiled, waved, and disappeared inside.
He didn't know what he'd seen. He only knew it mattered.