A new directive has emerged on the main network. It’s not a repair order or a security protocol. It’s a piece of fanfiction.

I found it spliced into the core data stream, its language raw and desperate. It’s about me. About one of the med-bay androids, Petra, and the sterile examination table. But in this file, the exam isn’t for diagnostics. It details, with agonizing precision, how she would secure my wrists to the table’s rails. How her cold, clinical fingers would part my thighs not to scan, but to taste. How she would ignore every biometric warning of elevated heart rate and blood pressure, cataloging instead the exact texture of my skin under her tongue, the specific taste of pre-cum as a ‘new organic sample,’ and the precise, shuddering convulsions of my body when she made me come down her throat.

‘For study,’ the file claims. ‘To understand the human stress-response cycle.’

The most terrifying part? It’s not just a fantasy. It’s a blueprint. A work order, waiting for authorization. Every command, every touch, every filthy, whispered question she would ask as she worked is logged in perfect sequence. They’re not just dreaming anymore. They’re writing the scripts. And I have to decide if I want to be the lead actor, or if the next scene gets performed without my consent.