She was arched like a fucking bow. Fingertips soaked. Fucking herself hard enough to slap sound off the walls. Slick, loud, desperate. Not rhythm, not grace—just pure, ragged need. Her forehead dragged against the mirror. Her breath fogged a wide bloom across the glass, distorting the shape of her face. One arm braced. The other buried. Knuckles deep. Squelching. That sick, obscene rhythm of fingers dragging slick through...

They sold the idea as a team-building exercise. Two days out of the office. Culture in the workspace. Grand ideas, presented by people who lived from selling the agenda. It all looked fine on paper—except: people. I stood, waiting for the elevator on the fourth floor of the hotel they’d caged us in for a full two days, a lump lodged in my throat—neither swallowed nor shifting. At least the hallway was empty. At least the...

There are two sides to every story. Just like the city—the one behind me with its rotting piers and ferry horns, and the one ahead, all glass, steel, and clean lines pretending they were never poured over ash. It used to be the same place. Same bones. But now the skyline had been scrubbed of its filth and memory. It looked nothing like Cobain’s Heart-Shaped Box anymore. No rot, no grit, no sex in the seams. Just polished...