Eight-fifteen in the fucking morning and I was already vibrating with a cocktail of anxiety, curiosity, and something darker—something I refused to name. Darian's neighborhood was all sleek glass facades and tasteful landscaping. Money without the need to scream about it.
I double-checked the address against the text he'd sent at 7 AM. Punctual bastard.
His place wasn't what I expected. No fortress, no gothic mansion—just a modern townhouse with clean lines, large windows, and an understated gray exterior. But something was off. The windows reflected back too perfectly, almost metallic in the morning light. And the silence—a neighborhood this dense should have ambient noise, but standing on his doorstep was like stepping into an anechoic chamber.
Before I could knock, the door opened.
"You're early." Darian stood in dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt that did nothing to hide the lean muscle underneath. His eyes were clearer today—less static behind them, which was more unnerving than reassuring.
"You're observant." I stepped past him, my shoulder brushing his arm. That brief contact sent a jolt of clarity through the static field that permanently surrounded him—a flash of something warm and electric.
He noticed. Of course he fucking noticed. His jaw tightened briefly before the mask slipped back into place.
The interior was minimalist but not sterile—dark hardwood floors, clean-lined furniture in shades of gray and blue. What caught my attention was the utter absence of sound reflection. Even my footsteps seemed muted, absorbed rather than echoed.
"You've soundproofed the entire place." Not a question.
"Custom acoustic treatment." He closed the door with a soft click. "Designed to dampen certain frequency ranges while enhancing others."
I let my fingers trailed along a wall. "Military grade?"
"Beyond that." He moved past me toward what appeared to be a living room. "Coffee?"
"Already caffeinated." I followed him, cataloging details. No personal photos. No clutter. Nothing to suggest a human lived here rather than some highly evolved specimen merely occupying space. "Nice place for a lab rat."
His mouth quirked. Almost a smile. "Is that what you think this is?"
"Tell me it isn't."
Instead of answering, he gestured to a seating area. The furniture was arranged in a perfect conversation pit, but what drew my attention was the ceiling—panels of some material I didn't recognize, arranged in a precise geometric pattern.
"Frequency modulators," I guessed.
"Very good." He seemed genuinely impressed. "Custom designed. This room creates a controlled environment where emotional frequencies can be isolated, amplified, or dampened."
"So I'm not the first freak you've brought home." The words came out sharper than intended.
"You're the first I've invited," he replied, emphasizing the distinction in a way that made my skin warm.
He gestured for me to sit. I chose the armchair instead of the sofa he indicated, maintaining distance. He didn't comment, just took a seat on the sofa across from me.
"Before we begin, I need to understand your baseline." His voice shifted to something more clinical. "What exactly happens when you detect emotional frequencies?"
I considered lying, giving him some sanitized version. But he'd been more honest than expected last night, and there was something about sitting in this sound-engineered room that made omission seem pointless.
"It's physical." I leaned back, forcing relaxation I didn't feel. "Emotions register as actual sensations—textures, temperatures, vibrations. Joy is like warm champagne bubbles under the skin. Anger is jagged glass shards. Lust is..." I hesitated, then committed, "Lust is heat and pressure, like being slowly crushed by something you don't want to escape."
His eyes darkened slightly. "And when you manipulate those frequencies?"
"I don't create anything new—I just amplify what's already there. Turn up the volume on whatever emotional station someone's already tuned to." I shrugged. "Makes me useful in my line of work. People drink more when they're having fun. Spend more when they're feeling competitive. Tip better when they're feeling generous."
"And that's all you use it for? Making drunk people drunker and separating fools from their money?"
"Don't act like you're above manipulation, static man." I smiled without warmth. "We just have different methods."
He acknowledged this with a slight nod. "What happens when you use the frequency modulator?"
"Everything gets louder. Clearer." I thought back to the test run at my office. "Like suddenly hearing in stereo when you've been living with mono your whole life. But there's a cost—I become more receptive to emotional feedback. My shields get thinner."
"That's the vulnerability Lilith exploited yesterday." He leaned forward. "She recognized what you were doing immediately."
"How exactly does her ability work?"
"She doesn't just read emotions like you do—she manufactures them." His voice took on that clinical tone again. "ECHO-7 discovered five subjects with natural empathic abilities. Each processed emotional energy differently. Subject One could absorb emotions, act as a dampening field. Subject Two could mirror and reflect emotions back. Subject Three—Lilith—could project manufactured emotional states."
"And the others?"
"Subject Four could transfer emotional states between individuals. Subject Five could amplify existing emotional states to dangerous levels."
The parallels weren't lost on me. "That sounds similar to what I do."
"Similar, but not identical." His gaze was too steady, too measuring. "ECHO-7 was never able to find someone with your specific ability—processing emotional frequencies as sound waves."
"Lucky me." I shifted in my seat. "What happened to the other subjects?"
"Subject One committed suicide six months after conditioning. The emotional absorption became too much." His voice remained neutral, but I detected the faintest whine of regret beneath it. "Subject Two suffered psychological fracturing—multiple personality disorder. Subject Four was terminated when he couldn't control the transfers and caused a mass panic event during testing."
"And Five?"
His expression flickered, static briefly disrupted. "Classified."
"Bullshit." I leaned forward. "You've told me everything else."
"Subject Five escaped during the program dissolution." His static pulse fluctuated, revealing something beneath—concern? Fear? "Hasn't been located."
The implications hung heavy between us.
"So today's lesson is what—how to defend against Lilith's projections?"
"Yes." He stood. "I need to see your natural defenses first, then we'll work on strengthening them."
He walked to a wall panel and pressed a sequence. The lighting in the room shifted subtly, and I felt a change in air pressure, like my ears needed to pop.
"I'm going to activate the system. You'll feel increasing emotional projections—synthetic recreations of what Lilith can generate. Try to block them."
"Wait—" I started, but he'd already pressed another control.
The first wave hit like a gentle nudge—artificial happiness, cotton candy sweet but hollow at the core. Easy to identify as fake, easy to block.
"Good." He nodded. "Now something stronger."
The next wave was anger—red hot and jagged, but manufactured. It lacked the organic complexity of real rage. I breathed through it, maintaining my shields.
"Very good. Now—"
The fear hit like a tidal wave—primal, overwhelming, crawling over my skin like ice-cold spiders. My heart rate spiked, breath caught.
"Fuck!" I gasped, doubling over.
Darian was suddenly kneeling in front of me, hands hovering near but not touching. "Breathe through it. It's not real."
"I know it's not real," I snarled, fighting to regain control. "Doesn't make it feel any less shitty."
The fear projection cut off abruptly. I dragged in a ragged breath.
"That was only twenty percent of what Lilith can generate," he said quietly.
"Fantastic." I straightened, refusing to show weakness. "So what's the solution?"
"Contact." He held out his hand. "My static interferes with emotional projections—creates a barrier they can't penetrate. When we have physical contact, that barrier can extend to you."
I stared at his outstretched hand, remembering how the mere brush of shoulders at the door had sent clarity cutting through his static.
"That's why you've been avoiding touching me." I met his eyes. "It works both ways, doesn't it? I get your protection, but you lose your shields."
A muscle in his jaw tightened. "Yes."
The admission hung between us, heavy with implications.
"So I'm supposed to, what—hold your hand during negotiations?"
"We need to establish a more subtle connection." He dropped his hand. "If we practice, we can create a link that won't require obvious physical contact."
"A link?" I raised an eyebrow. "That sounds uncomfortably permanent."
"It's temporary," he assured me, but something in his static pulse wavered. "But first, we need to establish the baseline connection."
He stood and extended his hand again. After a moment's hesitation, I took it.
The static surrounding him shattered like glass—not just a crack or glimpse, but a complete dissolution. For the first time, I could read him clearly—determination layered over caution, curiosity entangled with something darker and hungrier. And beneath it all, a low thrumming beat of desire that matched the sudden acceleration of my own pulse.
His pupils dilated as he felt his barriers drop. "Shit," he breathed.
Neither of us let go.
"Is this what it's like?" I asked quietly. "Being normal? Having people read you like a fucking book?"
"I wouldn't know." His voice was rougher now, the careful control slipping. "I haven't been without the static since the program."
That revelation hit harder than expected. "How long?"
"Twelve years."
The emotional landscape between us shifted—sympathy threading through the complex web already connecting us. His grip tightened fractionally.
"Let's try the projection again," he said, regaining some composure. "With contact this time."
He reached for the control panel with his free hand, and the fear projection returned—but now it felt distant, muted, like watching a storm through thick glass. Protected by his static barrier, I could analyze rather than experience.
"It's working," I confirmed.
"Good." He looked down at our joined hands. "Now we need to establish a more subtle connection. Something that won't be obvious in a negotiation setting."
"Like what?"
"We need to create a sensory anchor—something that maintains the connection without constant contact." He finally released my hand. The static barrier immediately reformed around him, emotions once again masked behind that persistent white noise.
The loss of connection was disorienting.
"Most effective sensory anchors are created through intensive shared experiences," he continued. "The military used several methods—controlled stress environments, synchronized breathing exercises, and..." he hesitated, "more intimate approaches."
"Intimate approaches?" I repeated, eyebrow raised.
"Physical connection creates the strongest anchors." His expression remained neutral, but I caught a flicker of something beneath the static. "The more intense the experience, the more durable the connection."
"So you're suggesting we fuck to establish a psychic link?" I kept my tone deliberately blunt, watching for his reaction.
A fractional tightening around his eyes was the only sign my crudeness affected him. "That's one option, though not the only one."
"But the most effective?"
"Yes." No hesitation.
I leaned back, studying him. "That's quite the professional sacrifice you're proposing, Frost."
"We need a connection that will work reliably against Lilith." He matched my stare. "If you're uncomfortable with that approach, we can try alternatives."
"I didn't say I was uncomfortable." I stood, needing to move, to release some of the tension building under my skin. "I'm just wondering how often you've used this particular training technique."
"Never." The word landed with unexpected weight. "This would be the first time."
I circled the room, processing. His eyes tracked my movement, though he remained seated.
"We have four hours before the next meeting with Lilith." His voice was steady. "We need a functioning connection by then."
"And fucking is the fastest way to get there?"
"Physical intimacy creates neural pathways that—"
"Save the science lecture." I stopped pacing, facing him directly. "Just tell me the truth. Is this really necessary, or is it just convenient?"
He stood, closing some of the distance between us. "Both."
The honesty was refreshing.
"If we do this," I said carefully, "it's just business. A tactical decision."
"Agreed."
"And we establish clear boundaries."
He nodded once. "Whatever you need."
The air between us seemed to thicken, charged with possibility and something more dangerous—anticipation.
"What exactly would this involve?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
"We'd need to establish synchronization first—matched breathing, sustained contact." He took another step closer. "Then build toward more intense sensory input."
"Clinical as ever," I observed dryly. "Do you always approach sex like a military operation?"
A flicker of genuine amusement broke through his static. "I find precision increases effectiveness."
"I'll bet." Despite myself, I smiled. "Where do we start, Commander?"
"With contact." He extended his hand again. "Sustained this time."
I placed my palm against his. Once again, his static barrier collapsed—emotions suddenly laid bare. Desire flared hotter now, more immediate, though still contained by his formidable self-control.
"Now match my breathing," he instructed.
I fell into rhythm with him—slow, deep breaths that gradually synchronized. As our breathing aligned, something shifted in the connection between us—strengthening, deepening.
"Good," he murmured. His free hand moved to my wrist, fingers resting lightly over my pulse point. "Now close your eyes and focus on the point of contact."
I hesitated, then complied. With visual input removed, the sensory experience intensified—the warmth of his skin, the steady pressure of his fingers, the synchronized rhythm of our breathing.
"Focus on my voice," he continued, his tone dropping lower. "Imagine it as a frequency—something you can tune into, isolate from background noise."
His voice did have a distinctive quality—a resonance that vibrated at a frequency I could almost taste. I concentrated on it, letting it become a focal point.
"Now," his fingers tightened slightly around my wrist, "when I step back, maintain that frequency. Hold onto it."
He released my hand and moved away. The static barrier reappeared, but this time—a difference. I could still sense a connection, thin but present, like a single strand of spider silk stretching between us.
"I can still feel you," I said, surprised. "It's faint, but there."
"That's the beginning of an anchor." He sounded pleased. "But it's not strong enough yet."
"What next?"
Instead of answering, he moved closer again—much closer. His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone in a gesture too gentle for the clinical exercise this was supposed to be.
The static dissolved again, but the emotional landscape had shifted—desire now dominant, rising like a tide.
"Tell me to stop and I will," he said quietly.
My pulse jumped. "Don't stop."
His kiss wasn't gentle. It was precise, deliberate—a tactical strike aimed at maximum impact. His hand slid from my face to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with calculated pressure.
I wasn't passive. I matched his intensity, my hands finding purchase on his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath thin cotton. The connection between us flared brighter, stronger—emotional frequencies aligning, resonating.
He backed me against the wall, his body pressed against mine—chest, hips, thighs. Every point of contact strengthened the growing link between us. His hand moved to my waist, slipping under the hem of my shirt to find bare skin.
"Focus," he murmured against my mouth. "Hold onto the frequency."
There was a clinical edge to his words that should have been a mood killer, but somehow it wasn't—just a reminder of the bizarre circumstances that had brought us to this point.
His hand slid higher, tracing my ribs, thumb brushing the underside of my breast. My breath hitched, and I felt his satisfaction ripple through our connection.
"The anchor forms through shared intensity," he said, his voice rougher now. "The stronger the experience—"
"The stronger the link," I finished. "I get it. Less talking, more doing."
A flash of genuine amusement cut through his controlled desire. He obliged, capturing my mouth again while his hands continued their methodical exploration. My own hands weren't idle—I slipped them under his shirt, tracing the ridges of muscle and scars that mapped his torso.
One particular scar—a long, raised line that curved around his side—made him inhale sharply when I touched it. The static briefly returned, then dissolved again when I moved my hand away.
"Sorry," I murmured.
"Don't be." He caught my wrist, guiding my hand back to the scar. "Part of the process."
The vulnerability of the gesture wasn't lost on me. I traced the scar more deliberately this time, feeling him tense then gradually relax into the touch.
The connection between us deepened with each passing moment—not just physical, but something more fundamental. I could feel the frequency of him, distinct from all others I'd encountered, becoming imprinted in my awareness.
His hands found the button of my jeans. "Still okay?"
"Yes." No hesitation.
He dropped to his knees with military precision, dragging denim down with him. The sight of him looking up at me, static completely gone, emotions laid bare—desire, determination, and something more complex I couldn't quite name—sent a jolt of heat through me so intense it bordered on pain.
"Remember to focus," he reminded me, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh. "Hold onto the frequency."
"Hard to focus when you're—fuck!" His mouth found me, and coherent thought fractured.
The connection between us flared incandescent—his satisfaction at my response feeding back into my pleasure, creating a loop of escalating sensation. I tangled my fingers in his hair, abandoning any pretense of clinical detachment.
Just when I was approaching the edge, he pulled back. The loss of contact was jarring.
"Not yet," he said, rising to his feet. "We need to complete the circuit."
He led me to the sofa, shedding his own clothing with efficient movements. No seduction, no teasing—just purposeful action toward a defined goal. It should have felt cold, mechanical, but instead the directness was its own kind of intoxication.
When he finally joined our bodies, the anchor connection locked into place with an almost audible click—a perfect resonance, frequencies aligned and synchronized. I could feel him not just physically but emotionally, the static completely dissolved, leaving nothing but raw, unfiltered connection.
"Hold onto this," he instructed, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "This frequency. This feeling."
It was impossible not to. The sensory input was overwhelming—physical pleasure layered with emotional resonance, creating something beyond ordinary experience. I arched against him, seeking more, deeper.
His careful control began to slip—movements becoming less measured, more instinctive. Through our connection, I could feel his surprise at his own response, the unexpected intensity catching him off guard.
"Fuck protocol," I gasped, wrapping my legs tighter around him. "Just feel it."
Something in him broke loose—the last tether of restraint snapping. His rhythm became more urgent, less calculated. I felt his pleasure as my own, doubled back and amplified through our connection.
When release finally came, it hit us both simultaneously—the shared intensity cementing the anchor link between us. For several heartbeats, the boundary between us blurred completely—his consciousness bleeding into mine, mine into his, static and sound waves merging into perfect harmony.
Then reality reasserted itself. He carefully separated our bodies but maintained physical contact, his hand resting on my hip as we caught our breath.
"Did it work?" I asked finally, my voice slightly hoarse.
He nodded, looking slightly dazed. "The anchor is established. Even when I reactivate the static barrier, you should be able to maintain the connection."
"Let's test it."
He removed his hand and sat up, closing his eyes briefly in concentration. The static barrier reformed around him, but unlike before, I could still feel him through it—the connection thin but unbroken, like a whisper I could just barely hear but couldn't quite ignore.
"I can feel you," I confirmed. "It's working."
Relief flickered across his face. "Good. We'll need to reinforce it before the meeting, but the hard part is done."
The clinical assessment should have been jarring after what we'd just shared, but somehow it wasn't—just a return to the reality of why we were here.
I sat up, reaching for my discarded clothing. "I'm going to clean up."
He nodded, already retrieving his own clothes. The ease with which he shifted back to professional mode was both impressive and slightly disturbing.
In his bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, trying to process what had just happened. The sex itself had been exceptional—intense in a way I hadn't experienced before. But more disorienting was the lingering connection, the ability to sense him even through walls and static barriers.
When I returned to the living room, he was fully dressed and typing something on a tablet. He looked up when I entered.
"The anchor should hold through the meeting," he said. "If Lilith attempts emotional manipulation, you'll be partially shielded. If it starts to fail, any physical contact between us will reinforce it."
"Convenient." I leaned against the doorframe. "So what's the catch?"
He set the tablet aside. "The anchor works both ways. While it's active, I'm more accessible to you than I've been to anyone in twelve years."
The vulnerability inherent in that statement wasn't lost on me. "Is that why no one's tried this approach before?"
"Yes." No elaboration, but none was needed.
"What happens after the merger negotiations are complete?"
"The anchor will fade naturally over time without reinforcement." He met my eyes directly. "Or it can be deliberately severed, if that's what you prefer."
The option to sever it felt important—a reminder that this was temporary, tactical. Just business.
"We should eat something before the meeting," he said, standing. "The system uses considerable energy. There's food in the kitchen."
I followed him, noticing how the anchor link made it easier to navigate his space—like having an invisible guide rope connecting us.
His kitchen was as minimalist as the rest of the place, but functional. He moved with practiced efficiency, preparing something simple—eggs, toast, fruit. We ate in companionable silence, the new connection between us making words seem redundant.
"There's something you're not telling me," I said finally, setting down my empty plate. "About why I was chosen for this job."
His static barrier fluctuated, the anchor link providing glimpses of what lay beneath—concern, calculation, and something that felt almost like guilt.
"We should focus on today's meeting," he deflected. "Lilith will be looking for weaknesses."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he agreed, "it's not. But it's all I can give you right now."
I studied him, trying to read through the static, using our new connection to probe deeper. I caught fragments—something about Subject Five, about frequency matching, about potential I didn't understand.
"After the meeting," he promised, sensing my persistence. "I'll explain more then."
It wasn't enough, but it would have to do for now. I nodded once, accepting the temporary truce.
"Nine o'clock tomorrow," he said, glancing at the clock. "Time to return to the hotel. The car will take you."
He walked me to the door. Before opening it, he turned to face me, his expression serious.
"What happened here—" he began.
"Was tactical," I finished for him. "Just business."
Something flickered through our connection—disappointment? Relief? It was gone too quickly to identify.
"Exactly." He opened the door. "Remember to focus on the anchor during the meeting. If Lilith tries to manipulate emotions, you'll feel pressure on the connection. That's your warning to strengthen the link."
"Got it." I stepped out into the morning light. "See you at eleven."
As I walked to the waiting car, I could feel the connection between us stretching, thinning, but not breaking. Even as the distance increased, that singular frequency remained—a persistent whisper beneath the static.
Whatever this job was really about, whatever Darian wasn't telling me—it had just become considerably more complicated.