Chapter 4: Mirrored Confession
The taste still coated her tongue. Sour. Salty. Like licking a battery dipped in brine. Orihime leaned heavily over the cracked porcelain sink in the main floor women's bathroom, the one people actually used, scrubbing her mouth with icy water until her gums hurt. It didn’t help. The ghost of Ryūken’s bitter, neglected musk seemed etched into her tastebuds. She spat, the water swirling pinkish down the drain – she’d scrubbed her gums raw. Her reflection in the streaked mirror was a horror show: eyes wide and bloodshot, skin pale except for two feverish spots high on her cheeks, hair escaping its clip in damp tendrils. Her skirt felt cold and heavy where she’d soaked it.
She needed to get back. The girls would wonder. The group chat was probably exploding. She couldn't stay hidden forever. Taking a shaky breath, she straightened, smoothing her blouse. The damp patch on her skirt was noticeable, darkening the grey fabric. Maybe she could claim she spilled her water bottle? Her hands trembled as she tried to tuck the blouse tighter into the waistband, pulling the fabric taut across her chest. The buttons, already straining under the pressure of her full breasts after her frantic movements upstairs, protested.
Pop.
A small, sharp sound. Like a seed pod cracking. Orihime froze, staring down. The middle button of her pale blue blouse lay on the tiled floor, rolling in a tiny semicircle before settling near the drain. The fabric gaped open, revealing a generous swell of lace-edged bra and the deep cleavage beneath. Her stiff nipples, still peaked and sensitive from her abandoned-bathroom climax and the lingering adrenaline, pressed visibly against the thin material. They brushed the cold metal edge of the sink as she instinctively hunched forward, trying to cover herself. A fresh wave of heat flooded her face. Perfect. Just perfect.
Outside the stall door, the main bathroom door whooshed open. Laughter and chatter spilled in – Mika and Chiyo.
"– and Akemi swears she saw Takeda from Logistics lurking near the server room yesterday," Mika was saying, her voice echoing off the tiles.
"Server room? Please. He barely knows how to turn his monitor on," Chiyo scoffed. "My money’s still on Ishida. Did you see that last pic? The… texture? The hair? Ugh. Screams 'doesn't wash properly'."
Orihime’s breath hitched. She pressed herself against the cold tile partition, willing herself invisible. The gap in her blouse felt enormous, a beacon. Her breasts ached, heavy and confined. She fumbled with the remaining buttons, trying to pull the sides together, but the gap wouldn’t close. The stiff lace of her bra scraped her oversensitive nipples. Every nerve felt raw.
"What are we even doing in here?" Chiyo asked, the sound of a stall door latching.
"Checking the chat again!" Mika replied, her voice muffled. "Akemi thinks she found another post. Something about… preferences? Lurking. Creepy."
Orihime closed her eyes. Preferences? Her mind flashed to the grimy tower of paper, the embedded hairs, the smell. A fresh jolt of that confusing, unwanted heat pulsed low in her belly, warring violently with the shame. She needed to cover herself. Think, Orihime, think! Paperclips? Too flimsy. Safety pin? None in her bag. Her blazer was draped over her chair back at her desk. Miles away.
Footsteps approached her stall. Mika’s voice was right outside. "Hey, Orihime? That you in there? We’ve been looking for you! Did you see Akemi’s latest DM? About the Twitter creep’s 'preferences'? It’s getting weirder!"
Orihime’s heart hammered against her ribs. "Y-yes! Just… just a minute!" Her voice sounded strangled. She pressed a hand flat over the gap in her blouse, holding the fabric together. It felt ridiculous. Exposed. "I’ll be right out!" Her stiff nipple scraped against her own palm through the lace.
"Okay, weirdo," Mika laughed, her footsteps retreating towards the sinks. "Hurry up! We need to strategize Operation Dick Pic Identification! Akemi’s totally going down if it’s Takeda."
Orihime leaned her forehead against the cool metal stall door. Sweat prickled her hairline. She couldn’t walk out like this. The gaping blouse, the damp skirt, her flushed face… it screamed something happened. Something bad. Or shameful. Or both. She needed a miracle. Or just a single button.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath that did nothing to calm her, she unlatched the stall door and stepped out, keeping one arm rigidly crossed over her chest, clutching the loose fabric. Mika and Chiyo were at the mirrors, reapplying lip gloss. Their eyes snapped to her reflection instantly.
"Whoa," Mika said, lowering her gloss tube. "Rough morning?"
Orihime forced a weak smile. "Just… clumsy. Spilled my water." She gestured vaguely towards the damp patch on her skirt, praying they wouldn’t look down and see the distinct lack of a button and the expanse of lace beneath her clutching hand.
Chiyo frowned, her gaze sharp. "Your blouse ripped?"
"A button popped," Orihime confessed, her cheeks burning. "Stupid cheap thing."
"Oof, hate that," Mika commiserated, turning fully. "Need a safety pin? I might have…" She rummaged in her small purse.
Before Mika could find anything, the heavy bathroom door creaked open again. Orihime froze. Ryūken Ishida stood in the doorway, blinking owlishly behind his smudged glasses. He looked even messier than usual, hair sticking up at odd angles, shirt collar wrinkled beneath a cheap, slightly-too-tight v-neck sweater, a greasy sheen on his forehead. His gaze swept the room, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on the strip of skin and lace visible where Orihime’s clutching hand didn’t quite meet the fabric edge. A faint, knowing flicker passed through his eyes – gone almost instantly, replaced by his usual awkwardness.
"Uh," he mumbled, shifting his weight. "Wrong… wrong door. Sorry." He didn’t move. His eyes darted to Orihime again, then away, then back. He fidgeted with something in his sweater pocket.
Mika snorted. "Men's is next door, Ishida. Try opening your eyes." Chiyo just stared, her expression unreadable.
Ryūken ignored them, his focus seemingly locked on the floor near Orihime’s feet. He pointed a stubby finger. "Uh… Kurosaki? I think… I think you dropped this?" He stepped fully into the room, the disinfectant smell momentarily overlaid by the faint, familiar sour tang of unwashed skin and stale fabric that seemed to cling to him. He bent down with a grunt, his belly straining against the sweater, and picked up the small, pale blue button that had skittered near the drain. He held it out towards Orihime, pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
Orihime stared at the button, then at Ryūken’s face. His expression was carefully neutral, but there was an intensity in his eyes that hadn’t been there moments before. He knew. He knew why she was flustered, clutching her blouse. He’d seen the gap. Maybe smelled the lingering evidence of her desperation still clinging to her skin, warring with the bathroom bleach. The stolen, consumed papers seemed to churn in her stomach. The phantom taste surged back, metallic and vile.
"Th-thanks," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. She didn’t move to take it. Couldn’t. Her arm remained locked across her chest.
Ryūken didn't lower his hand. He took another small step closer, invading the already cramped space near the sinks. The sour, intimate scent intensified. His gaze met hers, holding it. "Looks like you… uh… need a hand getting that fixed," he said quietly, his voice low, almost intimate, ignoring the other women entirely. "I have a sewing kit in my desk drawer. High-grade. Came with my… bespoke shirts." A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. "I could… help you pin it? Right now? My office is… empty." He held the button out like a tiny, damning token. The flickering fluorescent light glinted off his smudged glasses, obscuring his eyes, but the predatory stillness in his posture was terrifyingly clear. He wasn't asking about the button. He was offering a solution born from observation, from knowing exactly how compromised she was. And the implicit threat of exposure hung like a shroud in the thick, scented air. The choice was immediate, suffocating: face the girls half-dressed and reeking of scandal, or follow the toad with the button into the shadows.
The sour tang of Ryūken’s proximity hit her like a physical blow, mixing with the bleach-scented air. His eyes, behind smudged lenses, held a knowing glint that made her skin prickle cold despite the heat flooding her face. That tiny smirk, the quiet insistence in his offer – it wasn't about a button or a blouse. It was a trapdoor swinging open beneath her feet.
Her stomach twisted, the phantom taste of those filthy tissues surging back, bitter and metallic. The damp patch on her skirt felt like a neon sign. Mika and Chiyo were frozen, watching this awkward tableau, Mika’s half-offered safety pin forgotten. Ryūken stood too close, his stale sweat smell overpowering, the button held out like a key to a room she never wanted to enter. His office? Empty? The implication landed like a punch. No. Not a chance. Not ever.
"Thanks, Ishida," Orihime blurted, the words tight and too loud. She snatched the button from his damp fingers, avoiding contact, her own hand trembling violently. The tiny plastic disc felt greasy. "But I'm fine. Got my blazer." She didn’t look at him, couldn’t. Turning sharply, she pushed past Mika, her shoulder bumping the other woman’s purse. "Excuse me. Gotta get back."
She practically fled towards the heavy bathroom door, her arm still clamped over her chest, the torn fabric gaping dangerously with each step. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence she left behind. She could feel Ryūken’s gaze burning into her back, heavy and possessive, as she fumbled for the handle. Mika’s startled "Orihime?" and Chiyo’s low, murmured comment were lost in the rush of blood in her ears.
Yanking the door open, she stumbled into the relative brightness of the office hallway. The clatter of keyboards, the low murmur of phone calls, the scent of cheap coffee – normal office sounds rushed in, a jarring contrast to the claustrophobic horror of the bathroom. She kept walking, fast, head down, one hand clutching the blouse closed, the other gripping the sweaty button like a shard of ice. Every nerve screamed. Past the water cooler, past Takeshi from Accounts who gave her a puzzled glance, past the photocopier humming its monotonous tune.
Her cubicle was a sanctuary. She practically fell into her chair, the cheap plastic groaning. Only then did she risk lowering her arm, letting the blouse fall open. The lace bra felt suddenly flimsy, inadequate armor. Fumbling in the drawer, she yanked out her grey blazer, shrugging it on quickly, pulling the lapels tight across her chest. She buttoned it right up to the neck, a stiff, protective shell. Safe. Hidden. For now.
She dropped the button onto her keyboard. It sat there, an ugly little accusation. That knowing look in Ryūken’s eyes flashed back, sharp and invasive. He’d seen. He knew. Her phone, face-down on the desk, vibrated with an insistent buzz. Akemi’s DM. The Twitter profile. The photos. The ‘preferences’. Her stomach clenched again, a fresh wave of nausea rolling over her. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, suddenly unbearably loud, casting harsh shadows across the neat stacks of paper on her desk. Her safe cubicle felt paper-thin, the air thick with the sour memory of Ryūken’s closeness and the digital ghosts flickering on her silent phone.
The blazer’s stiff collar scratched her neck, but Orihime kept it cinched tight, a flimsy fortress against the world. Ryūken’s stale, sour scent seemed trapped in her nostrils, mixing with the office’s cheap carpet cleaner and the ghost of that bitter, metallic taste. Her phone buzzed again, insistent, vibrating against the cheap particleboard desk like a trapped fly.
She flipped it over. The screen lit up, flooding her vision with the group chat’s frantic energy.
> Akemi: SERIOUSLY THOUGH WE HAVE TO REPORT THAT ACCOUNT. IT’S DISGUSTING. WHO POSTS THAT?
> Mika: ^^^ THIS. It’s borderline harassment just existing out there. Flag it. Report. Blast it into oblivion 🔥
> Chiyo: Yeah. Gone. Done. Doing it now. Bye bye, creep profile. ✌️
> Akemi: Wait wait WAIT! Should we screenshot the evidence first? For… idk… HR? If it is someone here?
> Mika: Omg YES good call Akemi! Screenshot EVERYTHING before we nuke it. Names, pics, the gross bio. All of it. Evidence locker time. 🕵️♀️
Orihime’s thumb hovered over the screen. Evidence. Proof. Of him. Her gaze flickered towards the cubicle entrance, half-expecting Ryūken’s unkempt figure to loom there, that knowing glint in his eye. Her skin felt tight, prickling beneath the blazer. Reporting it would make it disappear. The photos, the crude bio, the lurking implication – gone. Swept clean like spilled coffee. Safe.
But… then what? Suspicion would fester without proof. Whispers would still circulate. Was it Takeda? Was it Ishida? Orihime looked rattled earlier… And Ryūken… he’d know she’d seen. He’d know what she’d… done. The phantom taste surged, sharp and acrid. Her knuckles went white around the phone.
Download them.
The thought sliced through the panic, cold and clear. Not just screenshots – flimsy, croppable things. The originals. The full, uncensored weight of his… exhibition. Before they vanished forever. Before he could vanish behind plausible deniability. She needed them. Proof wasn't just for HR; it was a shard of control. A secret weapon clutched in her damp palm against the knowing smirk, the greasy button, the offered "help". Her thumb trembled.
The Twitter app icon seemed to pulse. She tapped it, fingers clumsy. Finding the profile was easy – a string of numbers and letters bookmarked morbidly in the group chat. Akemi’s latest DM contained the link. Click. The familiar, wretched grid loaded: tile after tile of grainy, poorly lit flesh. The last one Akemi mentioned – depicting a specific, unsettling "preference" involving crumpled office documents – burned into her brain alongside the memory of rough recycled paper on her tongue.
Her breath hitched. The office hum faded – the clacking keyboards, the distant ring of a phone, Takeshi’s wheezy laugh from three cubicles over – replaced by the frantic thud of her own heart. She glanced up, a quick, feral look over the partition wall. No one. Headphones on. Backs turned. Mika was typing furiously, probably composing her HR report. Chiyo was on a call, voice low and professional. Akemi was out of sight.
Now. Do it now.
Her finger jabbed the share icon on the first photo. Save Image. The little download arrow spun. One. A flush crept up her neck, hot and shameful, warring with a fierce, illicit thrill. Another. She scrolled, the images blurring – the thick thatch of unkempt pubic hair, the angry reddened skin, the glistening, neglected tip she’d tasted the ghost of. Save Image. Save Image. Each tap felt like breaking a law, like plunging her hand into something filthy and irredeemable. Her palms were slick on the phone.
The bio was next. A crude manifesto of bitterness and entitlement. Save as Image. The DM Akemi sent with the link. Save Image. Every piece of digital filth, hoarded onto her phone. The screen dimmed slightly. Battery icon flashing yellow. 12%. Panic spiked. Not enough. She needed them all.
She scrolled faster, frantic, tapping Save Image on the last few posts – a close-up of engorged veins on thick, flushed skin; a shot against what looked suspiciously like the chipped laminate of a breakroom counter. Done. All saved. Hidden in her camera roll, nestled between sunset pics and grocery lists. Just as her screen flickered and went dark. Dead.
Orihime stared at the black mirror of her phone screen. Her reflection stared back, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed, lips parted. The cubicle walls pressed in. The air felt thick, charged. She could hear her own blood roaring in her ears. She had it. The proof. Ryūken Ishida’s unvarnished, repulsive truth. Downloaded. Hers. The greasy plastic button on her keyboard gleamed dully under the fluorescent lights, a tiny, mute accomplice. What now?