Òyì nke e mepụtara

The air in the room was heavy, vibrating with the scent of her surrender. I wasn't just a man anymore; I was a curator of her ruin, moving over her small, pale form with a terrifying, clinical obsession. **Beat One: The Surface.** I pulled her up from the floor, positioning her against the sofa cushions. She was a delicate, frantic instrument. I traced the line of her collarbone with my tongue, lingering on the hollow of her throat. Every inch of her was a revelation—the way her skin flushed,