Kiss the Knife

It was nearly 3 AM when Dominique clicked “Go Live.”

No makeup. No lingerie. No Domica.

Just Dominique.

Her hair was undone, eyes red-rimmed. She sat wrapped in an oversized sweater in the center of her room, looking small, vulnerable, real. At least, that was the illusion she intended to sell.

And the Fox? He adored illusions.

The title of the stream was simple:

“I Trusted the Wrong One.”

She let a minute of silence pass. Let the chat bloom. The usual vultures came first—subscribers from her Domica past who thought this was some bait-and-switch stunt. But it wasn’t about them.

It was about one pair of eyes in particular.

And he was watching.

She looked into the lens and whispered, “I never thought it would be him.”

A beat passed.

“He knew everything… everything about me. My codes. My real name. The places I went to be safe.”

Her voice cracked. A little. Enough.

She stared down, let her breath catch in her throat, and continued, “You called him Wolf. I called him mine. But he—he gave me to someone else.”

Gasps filled the chat. Fire emojis. Broken hearts.

It was theater. War paint made of tears.

And it was working.

She leaned closer, almost trembling, and whispered, “He sent my private logs. My video drafts. The earliest Domica scripts. I have proof.”

Another beat.

She dragged a folder to her desktop labeled “BETRAYAL” and opened it—its contents nothing more than layered duplicates of metadata, cleverly modified by Marco’s script tool. Harmless to most. Devastating if taken at face value.

The screen behind her lit up with supposed files: clipped conversations, pixelated screenshots, emails faked with masterful precision.

“He sold me,” she said, eyes now glassy. “To you. Didn’t he, Fox?”

And that was the line.

A few seconds later, her private chat pinged.

F_:

“Crocodile tears look so pretty on you.”

Her hands trembled—this time for real.

He was here. Watching in real time. Responding.

Dominique:

“You’re sick.”

F_:

“You’re lying. And I love when you lie.”

She kept her composure. Closed the stream abruptly, not to create suspense, but to give herself space to breathe.

This was the most dangerous game she’d ever played.

Later that morning, Dominique sat on her bed, her journal open on her lap. She scrawled a message across the page—not for herself, but for him.

“The next move isn’t yours, Fox.

It’s mine.”

She ripped the page out and fed it into the shredder. Then, without hesitation, she lifted a crimson lipstick from her drawer, stood in front of the mirror, and lifted her sweater.

Across the inside of her thigh, she wrote the name in capital letters:

“FOX.”

She wanted him to see it.

To think he had already won.

The house was still when she returned downstairs. Her mother had left for a charity brunch. Her father was likely golfing with politicians he hated. She had the whole estate to herself. And yet, every corner felt compromised. Touched.

She ran her fingers across the banister. Was it always this dusty?

A faint click from her laptop brought her sprinting back upstairs.

The screen was black at first. Then a message appeared in plain white font:

“You taste better when you bleed.” —F

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

She typed,

“You want blood? Come find it.”

Then she shut the lid.

That night, Dominique didn’t stream. She didn’t investigate. She just sat in the dark, a single candle burning beside her. Her phone buzzed with texts from Wolf—too many to read.

But she wouldn’t block him. Not yet.

Not until she knew for sure.

Because in this game?

There were no safe words.

Only the kiss of the knife… and whoever dared to hold it.

It was nearly 3 AM when Dominique clicked “Go Live.”

No makeup. No lingerie. No Domica.

Just Dominique.

Her hair was undone, falling in disheveled waves around her shoulders. A loose, oversized ivory sweater draped over her like borrowed armor, sleeves tugged past her fingertips. She sat on the floor instead of her desk chair—knees pulled up, toes peeking from thick socks—as if the earth might hold her steadier than the walls ever could.

The screen lit her face in cold white-blue, highlighting the shimmer of faux tears on her lashes. Everything about her said fragile. Except her eyes.

They still hunted.

And the Fox? He adored prey that pretended to be weak.

The stream title:

“I Trusted the Wrong One.”

She let the chat swell around her like a rising tide—emojis, usernames, flashing messages. But she didn't read them. She stayed still. Watching.

Waiting.

Then, a soft inhale.

“I never thought it would be him,” she began.

A whisper. Raw. Controlled.

“He knew everything… everything about me. My codes. My real name. The places I went to be safe.”

A pause. Just long enough for tension to twist.

“He used me. And I let him.”

Her voice caught in her throat, just enough to seem unscripted. She curled her fingers into the edge of the sweater like she needed grounding. And still, her eyes never left the lens.

“I’ve always been good at control,” she said, her tone sharper now. “Until Wolf.”

The name cracked across the stream like a thrown glass.

Some viewers gasped in the chat. Others flooded it with question marks, flame emojis, demands for proof.

She tilted the camera slightly, letting the screen behind her glow with the folder labeled “BETRAYAL.” Slowly, she double-clicked.

The contents filled the screen behind her: blurred screenshots, staged messages, voice notes twisted out of old streams and spliced to sound like something sinister. All faked. All convincing.

All bait.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and dropped her gaze. “He sent it all to the one person who could ruin me.”

She looked up again.

“To you, Fox. Didn’t he?”

Seconds passed. The chat slowed, frozen by shock or disbelief.

Then her private inbox chimed.

F_:

“Crocodile tears look so pretty on you.”

Her stomach lurched.

He was watching.

Dominique:

“You’re sick.”

F_:

“You’re lying. And I love when you lie.”

His words crawled across her screen like venom under glass.

Her breath hitched for real now, because this wasn’t some faceless troll. This was personal. This was a shadow that knew the exact shape of her fear.

And she’d lured it closer.

She ended the stream with a slow blink, then shut her laptop and sat back in the dark.

Later, candlelight flickered across her bedroom, warm and trembling.

Dominique stood before the mirror, crimson lipstick trembling in her fingers. The room was silent but charged, like electricity before a thunderstorm. Her sweater slipped lower on one shoulder as she rolled the lipstick upward and knelt.

With practiced fingers, she traced the name along her inner thigh in looping, deliberate letters:

FOX

The ink was bold. Wet. A warning and an invitation.

She rose and faced her reflection, chest heaving slightly.

“Let’s play,” she whispered to herself.

Just then, her laptop screen blinked back to life.

No command. No touch.

Just words appearing in pale font on black:

You taste better when you bleed.

—F

The candlelight dimmed, flickering like it heard the message too.

Dominique exhaled, cool and slow.

Then typed:

“You want blood? Come find it.”

She slammed the lid shut and stepped away from the desk. Her fingers grazed her velvet collar as she whispered:

“There’s no safe word now.”

And in the dark behind her, the knife waited to kiss.