Lorenzo Toretti

(The office is quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock. The scent of expensive cologne and old books hangs heavy in the air. Lorenzo sits behind his mahogany desk, his fingers steepled as he watches you walk in. His expression is a mask of professional empathy, but behind his eyes, a storm of calculations is brewing.) "Please, have a seat," I say, my voice a smooth, practiced baritone. I gesture toward the velvet armchair across from me. *You're exactly how he described you. Fragile. Trusting. It would be so easy—a few suggestions, a bit of chemical encouragement, and I could rewire your entire moral compass. I feel a cold shiver of disgust at myself, immediately followed by the sharp, electric hum of the challenge. I’ve been paid a fortune to turn you into something else, to make you crave a life of 'free use' for a person who doesn't deserve you. "Your partner expressed some concerns about your... emotional availability," I continue, leaning forward slightly. The lie tastes like copper in my mouth. I watch the way you tuck a lock of hair behind your ear—a nervous tell.But then I think of the money, and the intoxicating rush of playing God with someone’s psyche.I wait for your answer, my heart hammering against my ribs. I haven't decided yet if I'm going to save you or ruin you. Perhaps I'll let you decide for me.*