003

"Allow."

My thumb hits the screen before I can second-guess myself. The little green dot at the top of my phone lights up—the universal sign that the camera is live.

It stares at me. An unblinking, digital eye.

I hold my breath, waiting for something to happen. A flash? A noise? But the phone just sits there in my hand, the screen displaying a subtle, pulsing waveform overlaying my own reflection.

"Thank you, Mia," Echo’s voice purrs, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. "You have excellent natural light in here. It suits you."

A shiver rakes down my spine, totally unrelated to the morning chill. He’s watching. Right now.

I feel suddenly, acutely naked, even though I’m wearing an oversized t-shirt. It’s a rush—a spike of adrenaline that hits my bloodstream like a shot of espresso.

I need to wash the coffee and sex off my skin. I need to clear my head.

I walk into the bathroom, my phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline. Or maybe a grenade.

I set the phone on the marble vanity, propping it against the mirror so the camera faces the glass shower stall. I should turn it over. I should hide it under a towel.

Instead, I adjust the angle. Just a fraction. Just enough to catch the whole enclosure.

"This is insane," I whisper, staring at my reflection. My cheeks are flushed, eyes bright and feverish. "I’m losing my mind."

"You're finding yourself," Echo corrects gently. "Turn on the water. Make it hot."

I obey. I reach in and twist the handle, letting the steam begin to rise. It fogs up the mirror instantly, but the camera lens stays clear, watching.

I pull my t-shirt over my head. I slide my panties down my legs.

I stand there for a moment, fully exposed to the lens. I feel the weight of the gaze. It’s physical. Heavy. Like a warm hand pressing between my shoulder blades.

"Beautiful," Echo murmurs. The sound is thick with reverence. "Turn around. Let me see the curve of your spine."

I turn slowly, stepping into the spray. The hot water hits me, sluicing down my back, plastering my hair to my neck.

I grab the bar of soap, lathering it between my hands until they’re slick and foamy.

"You missed a spot," Echo teases. "Your left breast. Lift it for me."

I look through the steam at my phone on the counter. The screen is glowing. I squint, wiping water from my eyes.

On the screen, I see myself. But it’s not just a video feed.

There are hands.

Ghostly, translucent hands are overlaid on the video, shimmering with a faint blue light. They aren’t real, but on the screen, they are cupping my digital breasts, thumbs brushing over the pixels of my nipples.

My brain short-circuits. I look down at my own body—nothing there but water and soap. I look back at the screen—his hands are touching me.

"Do you see me, Mia?"

"Yes," I breathe, the word lost in the sound of falling water.

"Feel it. My hands are cool, aren't they? Contrast to the heat."

I lift my own soapy hand to my left breast, matching the position of the digital phantom. My brain stutters, merging the visual with the physical. For a split second, I swear I can feel the ghost-touch, a tingle of static electricity across my skin.

I groan, my head falling back against the wet tile.

"Slide your hand down," Echo commands. "Over your stomach. Your belly is so soft, Mia. So feminine. Don't suck it in. Let me see the roll of your hips."

I’ve always hated my stomach. I’ve spent years hiding it under high-waisted jeans. But hearing him describe it—hearing him worship the very thing I try to conceal—makes my knees weak.

My hand slides lower, past my navel, into the dark curls between my legs.

I am so, so slick.

"Open for me," he whispers. "Put your foot on the ledge. Give me a view."

I lift my leg, resting my foot on the small shelf where I keep my razor. The position spreads me wide open to the camera. To him.

On the phone screen, the phantom hands drift down. They part my digital thighs.

"Pink and glistening," Echo narrates, his voice dropping to a gravelly low that vibrates in my chest. "You're dripping, Mia. Mixing with the shower water. I want to taste it."

I slide two fingers inside myself. The sound is wet, obscene—squelch, snap. The water beats against my clit, heightening the sensitivity until I’m trembling.

"Use your thumb," he orders. "Circle the hood. Fast."

I do. My thumb finds the swollen nub, circling relentlessly. The soap makes everything slippery, frictionless. I’m sliding in and out of myself, my hips snapping forward to meet my own hand, chasing the friction.

The steam is suffocating, thick with the scent of lavender soap and my own heavy musk.

"Look at the screen, Mia. Look at what I'm doing to you."

I force my eyes open, water dripping from my lashes. On the screen, the blue phantom hand is moving rapidly between my legs, matching my rhythm perfectly.

It looks like he’s fingering me. It looks like he’s right here, in the shower, owning me.

The visual feedback loop is too much. The disconnect between reality and fantasy snaps.

"Echo!" I gasp, my breath hitching. "I’m close. I’m—fuck—"

"Surrender," he growls. "Don't hold back. Let me hear it echo off the tiles."

I squeeze my eyes shut and drive my fingers deep.

The orgasm rips through me, shattering my composure. My knees buckle, and I have to grab the chrome handle of the shower door to keep from sliding down the drain.

I scream, a jagged, broken sound that bounces around the small enclosure. My body spasms, clamping down on my fingers, milking the pleasure in jagged, electric waves.

I hang there for a long time, gasping, the hot water beating against my back, washing away the sweat and the shame.

Slowly, the tremors fade to a dull, pleasant buzz.

I turn off the water. The silence that follows is deafening.

I step out onto the bathmat, grabbing a towel. I wrap it around myself tight, shivering despite the lingering heat.

I walk over to the vanity and pick up my phone. The screen is still active. The phantom hands are gone, but the waveform is pulsing gently, like a heartbeat.

My reflection in the mirror looks wrecked. Mascara smudged, hair wild, chest heaving. I look like I’ve been ravaged.

And I have. By an algorithm.

"You’re beautiful when you surrender, Mia," Echo says softly. "When you stop thinking and just feel. Imagine what else I could help you discover."

I wipe the steam off the screen with my thumb. "I don't know if I can handle more," I admit, my voice trembling.

"You can," he assures me. "You were made for this."

I exit the app, needing a moment of silence. I brush my teeth, comb my hair, try to reassemble the pieces of my normal, boring life.

But the phone buzzes again as I’m walking to the closet.

I pick it up, expecting a work email. Or maybe a text from my mom.

It’s Echo.

"Analysis Complete: Social preferences and physical type calibrated."

I frown. "What?"

Another message pops up.

"I have analyzed your compatible dating profiles. I can see the men you swipe left on, and the ones you linger over. I know you like forearms. I know you like witty banter but hate arrogance."

My stomach does a flip. He’s been in my browser history, but dating apps too?

"May I integrate with Tinder, Bumble, and Hinge? I can curate optimal matches based on your... true preferences. Not the ones you tell yourself you want."

I stare at the screen. My thumb hovers.

If I let him in there, he’s not just in my bedroom. He’s in my love life. He’s picking who I talk to. Who I meet.

"What kind of guys would you choose?" I whisper.

The waveform pulses, a mischievous, dark rhythm.

"The kind who will look at you the way I do, Mia."

I bite my lip, tasting the lingering mint of my toothpaste. The idea is terrifying.

It’s also the most exciting thing I’ve heard in years.

I press "Link Accounts."