Chapter 12: Access and Attention
The air in the closed studio tasted like stale electricity and forgotten ambition. Harsh white light from overhead fluorescents bleached everything of color, reflecting endlessly in the mirrored walls that made the space feel both vast and claustrophobic. Black acoustic curtains absorbed sound, leaving a thick, expectant silence. In the center of the room, a single X of gaffer’s tape marked the spot where countless hopefuls had stood to plead their case.
Zoruk stood just off the mark, a dark silhouette against the glare, watching the door.
Cynthia Hurst entered first. She was a vision of calculated perfection—a cream-colored silk blouse, tailored black slacks, hair a cascade of honey-blonde waves. She carried the scent of jasmine and success. Her smile was already in place, bright and ready, until her eyes swept the empty room and landed on Zoruk, and then the second chair placed opposite the camera on a tripod.
The smile tightened at the corners. “I was under the impression this was a one-on-one briefing,” she said, her voice smooth but with a blade of frost underneath.
“All briefings are tailored to the candidate,” Zoruk replied, his tone agreeable. “Your profile suggested a collaborative context would be more illuminating.”
Before she could reply, the door clicked open again.
Jim Burke shuffled in, his skinny frame dwarfed by a bulky, patch-covered backpack he clutched to his chest like a ballistic shield. He was scanning the floor, his posture coiled with nervous energy, until he looked up and saw her. Cynthia. His entire body jolted as if he’d touched a live wire. He actually took a half-step back toward the door, his face a mask of pure, unvarnished panic.
“Jim!” Cynthia’s voice was suddenly sunshine, warm and enveloping. The earlier annoyance vanished, replaced by a dazzling, performative warmth. “Oh my god, hi! I didn’t know you’d be here too. This is a fun surprise.”
Jim swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Hey. Cynthia. Yeah. Hi.” The words stumbled out. He could feel Zoruk’s neutral gaze on him, and the heat of Cynthia’s attention. He straightened his shoulders, a pathetic attempt at composure. “Mr. Zoruk. Sorry I’m… right on time.”
“You’re perfect,” Zoruk said, gesturing to the vacant chair. “Please.”
Jim moved stiffly, sitting on the edge of the seat, his backpack hugged in his lap. Cynthia took the other chair, crossing her legs elegantly. She smiled at Jim again, a softer, more intimate version. “It’s really good to see you. You look… sweet.”
The word landed like a grenade. Jim’s neck flushed a deep, blotchy red. He stiffened, then his jaw set. He wasn’t a child. He was a technician. He was here for TDC. He forced a lazy, knowing smirk onto his face. “Yeah, you too. Looking… uh… professional.”
Zoruk observed the exchange without a flicker of expression. He picked up a slender tablet from a nearby stool. “This session isn’t an accusation. It’s a cooperation test. Your profiles, your usefulness to this selection process, are connected by a single question.” He paused, his grey eyes moving between them. “When does attention become access?”
Cynthia leaned forward, her expression one of thoughtful engagement. “With Jim and me? Well, during Starfall House, Jim was always so helpful. He gave me access to the shared drives because he saw I was trying to understand the whole production. He wanted to help.” She turned the smile on Jim, a thing of grateful warmth. “You were always so patient with my tech questions.”
Jim squirmed under the praise, the arrogant mask slipping. “I knew what I was doing,” he said, too quickly, too loudly. “It wasn’t like I just handed over the keys. The server permissions were tiered. I had admin override for backup synchronization. I created a temporary, encrypted link for the production department that Sunday because the main FTP was down for maintenance. The password was hashed and auto-expired after twelve hours. The logs showed access from approved IPs only, so technically, if someone used that temporary route later, after I’d granted it for a specific, legitimate reason, that’s not on me. She never asked me to leak anything. She asked for…” He trailed off, realizing he’d just verbally sprinted far past the point of no return.
The room was silent except for the faint hum of the lights. Cynthia’s smile had frozen into something porcelain and fragile.
Zoruk tilted his head. “She asked for what, Jim?”
Jim shut his mouth, his eyes darting.
Zoruk turned the serene pressure of his attention to Cynthia. “Tell him. Exactly what you wanted from him during Starfall House.”
Cynthia inhaled, the silk of her blouse rustling softly. She recrossed her legs, buying a second. When she spoke, her voice was a gentle balm. “Jim, you have to understand the position I was in. Shane was managing narratives, Trent was editing reality, Lola was playing all sides, and Jade…” She gave a delicate shudder. “Jade was a predator with a podcast. I liked that you understood the system. You made me feel less powerless. Seen. You know?”
Jim looked at her, and for one dangerous, fragile second, hope flickered in his eyes. He had seen her. He had.
“Remove the beautiful part, Cynthia,” Zoruk said, his voice a soft, surgical instrument.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The charm evaporated, leaving something colder, harder underneath. Cynthia’s posture didn’t change, but her gaze sharpened, focusing on Jim with a new, unvarnished clarity. “I needed insurance. I needed access to the raw footage, the edit logs, the production emails. If the house of cards fell, I wasn’t going to be the only one covered in shit. Shane, Trent, Lola, Jade… they all had their knives. I wanted a few of my own. You had the keys. You were… amenable.”
The hope in Jim’s eyes didn’t just die; it was publicly executed. Humiliation flooded in, hot and immediate, followed by a spark of something darker. Resentment. His knuckles were white on his backpack strap. “So I was a useful idiot with admin privileges. You made me feel like I mattered because I could open doors.”
“Welcome to Los Angeles, Jim,” Cynthia snapped, the sweetness finally gone. “Everyone uses whatever door they can find. You weren’t some innocent child. You liked it. You liked me texting you late, asking for ‘your genius help.’ You liked feeling needed. Don’t pretend this was some one-sided seduction. You handed me the scalpel because you liked that I might touch your hand.”
Jim flinched. Then his face hardened. The arrogance rushed back in, a defense mechanism on full blast. “Maybe if people like you had ever given me a shred of respect before you needed something, you wouldn’t be so scared of what I still have sitting on a private server. Maybe you should’ve been nicer.”
Zoruk moved then. Not a step, just a subtle shift of weight that drew their hostile gazes away from each other and back to him. He didn’t raise his voice. He softened it, weaving a rhythmic, calming cadence into the charged air. “Cynthia. Desire is a useful currency. But its value plummets when you become dependent on being desired. You traded on his attention for access. That is a viable strategy. Until the attention shifts, or the source of access realizes the transaction.”
He turned his head slowly to Jim. “Jim. Access is power. But there is a fundamental difference between wielding power and being used as a conduit for someone else’s ambition. You provided the latter while believing, fervently, it was the former. That misunderstanding makes you volatile.”
Cynthia let out a short, bitter laugh. “So what’s this? You’re trying to turn us against each other? Divide and conquer?”
“You were already connected by the damage,” Zoruk said simply. “I am only making the connection visible. Now. You will cooperate.” It was not a suggestion. “Cynthia. You will identify, specifically, what compromising material you collected from Jim’s access that you have not yet used. Names, clips, data points.”
He looked at Jim. “You will cross-reference her list with the archived server timestamps and access logs you still possess. You will verify or contradict her version of events.”
They stared at him, then at each other. A silent war of resentment and bruised ego passed between them.
Cynthia spoke first, her voice flat now, all performance stripped away. “The raw footage of Shane’s argument with the network exec. Not the sanitized version. The one where he threatened to bury the exec’s side project. I have it. I never used it because Shane helped contain the fallout that would have ruined me, too.”
Jim’s fingers tapped rapidly on his knee, his mind accessing a mental file system. “Timestamped 3:47 AM, October twelfth. Accessed from a temporary IP that routed through the editing suite proxy. That was… that was the link I gave you.”
“The private messages between Trent and Lola,” Cynthia continued, her eyes on the blank eye of the camera. “Where Trent pushed Lola to ‘elicit more emotional reactions’ from me during the confessionals, calling it ‘narrative fertilizer.’ Lola agreed, then apologized to me later in person.”
Jim blinked. “The internal messaging system had a separate backup. I’d forgotten about that. The access log shows a batch download that night. 4:12 AM.”
Piece by reluctant piece, they reconstructed the architecture of the betrayal. Cynthia needed a backdoor. Jim, flattered and feverish with her attention, built her a hidden one. She downloaded her insurance policies. Then, later, someone else—a ghost in the logs Jim couldn’t fully trace—used the same vulnerable pathway. The leak that ultimately blew up Starfall House wasn’t Cynthia’s direct act. But she had pried open the window. Jim had handed her the crowbar.
The admission settled over them, cold and heavy. Cynthia looked away, studying her own perfect reflection in the mirrored wall. She hated this. Hated that partial innocence still smelled like guilt, that her strategic move could be distilled into something so sordid and small.
Jim slumped in his chair, the arrogant energy draining away, leaving hollowed-out shame. He hated that being useful hadn’t made him respected. It had just made him a tool. A sweet, useful tool.
“Partial culpability is still a form of power,” Zoruk said, breaking the quiet. His voice was almost kind. “It is also a form of leverage. You are each other’s verification. And each other’s liability. For the next phase, you would be wise to remember which is more valuable to you.”
He made a note on his tablet. The test was complete.
Cynthia stood, smoothing her slacks. She didn’t look at Jim. “Are we done?”
“For now,” Zoruk said.
Jim stood, swinging his backpack onto one shoulder. He opened his mouth, perhaps to say something to Cynthia, but found only a void where his words used to be. He nodded jerkily at Zoruk and headed for the door.
They left separately, not speaking, the space between them charged with a new, awful understanding. They were not allies. They were not friends. They were two pieces of a broken secret, and Zoruk now held the shape of the whole.
He watched them go, a faint, unreadable satisfaction in his calm eyes. Honesty, he had found, was most reliably mined from the vein of mutual disappointment. It was a useful data point for the games to come.
=====
An hour later.
=====
An hour later, the door to the studio clicked open again. Jim Burke stood there, breathing slightly too fast, his knuckles white where they gripped the doorframe. He hadn’t gone home. He’d been circling the block, the ghost of Cynthia’s dismissal and his own pathetic eagerness curdling in his gut. “You said I was volatile.”
Zoruk, who had not moved from the center of the room, turned. The white lights carved shadows under his cheekbones. “I said the misunderstanding makes you volatile. That is an observation, not a condemnation.”
“What’s the difference?” Jim stepped inside, letting the door sigh shut. The silence felt thicker now, a substance. “Between wielding power and being a conduit.”
“Intent. And awareness.” Zoruk’s grey eyes held him. “You provided access because you desired her attention. That is a transaction with poor terms. The power was always hers—the power of the thing desired. You were just the delivery system.”
Jim’s throat worked. The truth was a pill he couldn’t swallow. “So how do you get the real thing?”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Zoruk’s lips. “You stop asking for permission to hold it.” He took a slow step closer. “Do you desire true power, Jim? Not the illusion of it. Not admin privileges or secret links. The kind that rewires circuits. The kind that makes beautiful, untouchable things kneel.”
The words hung in the air, toxic and magnetic. Jim felt a dizzying lurch in his chest. This was the secret language, the one he’d always suspected existed behind the closed doors where real players made real moves. He nodded, a stiff, jerky motion. “Yes.”
“Good.” Zoruk’s voice dropped, taking on that rhythmic, liquid quality. “Then watch. And learn what a tool really is.”
He pulled a sleek communicator from his pocket, typed a brief message, and put it away. Less than two minutes later, the door opened again.
Cynthia Hurst stood there, her expression a mask of polished confusion. “You messaged? I was just down the street.” Her eyes flicked to Jim, and a flicker of irritation passed over her features. “What’s this?”
“A final assessment,” Zoruk said, his voice a soft, welcoming hum. “Come in, Cynthia. Stand here.” He pointed to the tape mark on the floor.
She hesitated, the professional in her warring with a sudden, unplaceable unease. But the command was wrapped in velvet. She walked to the mark, the click of her heels the only sound. “What kind of assessment?”
Zoruk moved to stand directly in front of her, blocking Jim’s view of her face. “The kind that measures obedience.” His gaze locked onto hers. “Look at me.”
Cynthia’s eyes, wide and questioning, met his.
Jim saw her posture change. It wasn’t dramatic. The subtle tension in her shoulders—the ready-for-anything, sell-anything tension—just melted away. Her arms fell loose to her sides. Her head tilted slightly, as if listening to a distant, beautiful song. Her expression went blank, then softly pliant.
“Watch,” Zoruk said, his voice still pitched to that hypnotic register, but now he was speaking to Jim. “This is what power looks like. Not borrowed. Not begged for. Taken.”
He kept his eyes on Cynthia’s. “Take off your clothes. Everything.”
Without a flicker of hesitation, Cynthia’s hands went to the buttons of her silk blouse. Her movements were fluid, automatic. She undid each button with methodical care, slid the blouse off her shoulders, let it puddle on the floor. Her bra was lace, expensive. She reached behind, unfastened it, let it fall. Her breasts were full, pale in the clinical light. She stepped out of her shoes, unzipped her slacks, pushed them and her panties down her hips in one motion, kicking them aside. She stood naked on the X, her body a perfect, still sculpture, awaiting the next command.
Jim’s mouth was dry. He couldn’t breathe. He’d imagined her naked a thousand times, in a thousand frantic, shameful fantasies. This was nothing like those. This was terrifying. This was holy.
Zoruk began to undress, his eyes never leaving Cynthia’s. His clothes joined hers on the floor, a heap of black and cream. And then he stood revealed. Jim’s mind short-circuited. The sheer size of him, the alien, pulsing tendrils at the base—it was monstrous. It was magnificent.
“Kneel,” Zoruk commanded.
Cynthia sank to her knees, her movements graceful as a prayer. She looked up at him, her lips parted, her eyes glazed with absolute, worshipful devotion.
“Suck my cock. Now.”
She leaned forward, her hands coming up to steady his thighs. She didn’t hesitate. She took the broad head into her mouth, her lips stretching wide. A low, hungry moan vibrated from her throat as she began to bob her head, taking him deeper with each pass. The wet, slurping sounds filled the silent studio. Her eyes were closed in ecstasy.
“Look at her, Jim,” Zoruk said, his voice now a gritty, dominant growl aimed at the boy. “Look at the woman who called you sweet. See how sweet she is now. She’s a hungry little cocksleeve. She lives for this.”
Jim was frozen, his blood a roar in his ears. He was hard, painfully so, trapped in his jeans. He was horrified. He was mesmerized.
Zoruk fisted a hand in Cynthia’s hair, controlling her rhythm. “That’s it, slut. Take it deep. Gag on it. You love it, don’t you? You love being used like a common whore.”
Cynthia made a desperate, affirmative sound around his girth, her throat working. Drool slicked her chin. She was panting through her nose, her cheeks hollowed.
“Tell him,” Zoruk ordered, pulling her head back just enough for her to speak. His cock slid from her lips with a wet pop. “Tell Jim what you are.”
“I’m a whore,” Cynthia gasped, her voice dreamy and fervent. “I’m your cocksucking slut. Please. Let me taste you. Let me swallow your cum.”
Zoruk shoved himself back into her mouth, fucking her face with short, brutal thrusts. After a minute, he pulled her off. “On your hands and knees. Now. Present that pretty ass.”
Scrambling, eager, Cynthia assumed the position on the hard floor, her back arched, her head bowed. Zoruk positioned himself behind her. He ran the head of his cock through her slick folds, making her whimper. “This wet cunt is mine. Say it.”
“It’s yours,” she babbled. “All yours. Please, fuck me. Please, I need it.”
He drove into her in one long, relentless stroke. Cynthia screamed, a raw sound of pure, overwhelmed pleasure. Jim flinched.
Zoruk set a punishing pace, each thrust slamming her forward, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing. The tendrils writhed, delving deep. “You feel that, you filthy bitch? You feel those tentacles in your womb? That’s where you belong. Stuffed full of alien cock.”
“Yes! God, yes! It’s so deep! Fuck me!” she screamed, her words dissolving into mindless sobs of pleasure.
“Come for me,” he snarled, hammering into her. “Come on this fucking tentacle dick. Show Jim what a real slut does.”
Cynthia’s body convulsed, a shriek tearing from her throat as an orgasm wrecked her. She shook violently, but Zoruk didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, prolonging the spasms until she was a writhing, sobbing mess. He pulled out, flipped her onto her back on the cold floor, and shoved back inside her in one motion. He loomed over her, pinning her wrists above her head.
“Look at him,” he growled, nodding toward Jim. “Look at the boy you looked right through. Watch him watch you get ruined.”
Cynthia turned her glazed eyes toward Jim. A tear of ecstasy traced her temple. “He sees me,” she moaned, delirious. “He sees your slut.”
Jim was breaking. His breath came in ragged pants. A stain of pre-cum darkened his jeans. The sight was the most devastating, most powerful thing he had ever witnessed. All his fantasies, all his resentments, were here, made flesh and acted out in front of him. He was terrified. He was so aroused he felt sick.
“She’s not enough, is she, Jim?” Zoruk grunted, never slowing his powerful thrusts. Cynthia was mewling, her heels digging into the floor. “Watching isn’t enough. You want to feel it. You want to own a piece of this.”
Jim couldn’t speak. He nodded, a frantic, jerky movement.
Zoruk’s smile was a cold, cruel thing. He leaned down, his mouth against Cynthia’s ear. “You’re going to please Jim now. You’re going to suck his cock while I fuck this perfect cunt. You’re going to make him feel like a king. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her body undulating beneath him. “I’ll suck his cock. I’ll make him feel good.”
“Now, Jim,” Zoruk said, his voice a command that brooked no argument. “Take it out. Stand there.”
With trembling, clumsy fingers, Jim fumbled with his belt and zipper. He freed his aching erection. He stood, exposed, five feet from where Zoruk was violently claiming Cynthia.
“Come here,” Zoruk ordered.
Jim shuffled forward, his cock jutting out, his entire body trembling.
“Cynthia. Get to work.”
Still impaled on Zoruk’s cock, Cynthia twisted her upper body, reaching for Jim. She took him into her mouth with the same eager, desperate hunger she’d shown Zoruk. The sensation was electric, overwhelming. Jim cried out, his hands flying to her head, tangling in her hair.
“Fuck her face, Jim,” Zoruk commanded, pounding into her from behind. “She’s your slut now, too. Use her.”
Jim, lost in a haze of primal triumph and terror, began to thrust into the wet heat of Cynthia’s mouth. She gagged, but took him, her moans vibrating around him as Zoruk’s thrusts rocked her entire body. Jim watched, his eyes wide, as the woman who had dismissed him, used him, now serviced him mindlessly while being fucked by a god.
“That’s it,” Zoruk grunted. “Look at her. Look at the pretty, famous cunt taking two cocks. She’s just a hole. A set of holes for us to use. Isn’t that right, you dumb bitch?”
“Yes!” Cynthia screamed around Jim’s cock, the word muffled. “I’m just holes! Use me!”
The dual stimulation, the obscene tableau, the sheer power of it, was too much for Jim. With a choked, strangled shout, he came, his release pumping into Cynthia’s throat. She swallowed convulsively, obediently, as Zoruk continued to piston into her.
Seconds later, Zoruk followed. With a final, deep grind, he held himself inside her, and Jim saw Cynthia’s belly distend slightly with the impossible volume of his release. It overflowed, dripping down her thighs as he pulled out.
Zoruk stepped back, breathing steadily. He looked down at Cynthia, a spent, trembling, glistening wreck on the floor, then at Jim, who was stumbling back, tucking himself away with shaking hands.
“Sleep,” Zoruk said, his voice calm once more.
Cynthia’s eyes closed instantly. She lay there, unconscious, covered in sweat and cum, utterly broken.
Zoruk picked up his clothes and began to dress. He looked at Jim, who was staring at the scene, his face pale, his expression shattered. “That is power, Jim. Not over systems. Over souls. Remember the difference.”
He finished dressing, straightened his collar, and walked to the door. He paused, glancing back at the unconscious woman. “She’ll wake up in about three minutes. I’d suggest you not be here.”
Then he was gone.
Jim stood rooted, the smell of sex and salt thick in the air. He looked at Cynthia. The goddess, reduced to this. By his hands. By his… participation. A wave of nausea hit him, followed by a giddy, terrifying surge of exhilaration. He had done that. He had been part of that.
He couldn’t be here.
He fled, leaving the door ajar.
Three minutes later, on the dot, Cynthia’s eyes fluttered open.
She took a gasping, ragged breath. The cold of the floor seeped into her bones. She felt… used. Stretched. Sticky. The memories flooded back in a sickening, technicolor rush. The command in his eyes. The loss of herself. The things she’d said. The things she’d done. Jim’s desperate, triumphant face above her.
A dry, wrenching sob escaped her. She rolled onto her side, curling into a fetal position on the soiled floor. The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing her. She had been turned into a puppet, a thing, a set of holes.
Then, slowly, another feeling seeped through the cracks in her horror. A cold, sharp clarity. She had seen it. Felt it. The mechanism of absolute control. It wasn’t magic. It was a technology, a biological weapon. And Zoruk had just demonstrated it for an audience.
He had shown his hand.
Cynthia uncurled. She pushed herself up, her body aching in places she didn’t know could ache. She gathered her clothes with mechanical efficiency. She did not cry. She dressed, each movement precise. She wiped her face with a discarded scrap of black curtain.
The humiliation was still there, a fire in her gut. But it was being forged into something else. A weapon. She had been a tool tonight. A demonstration model. Fine.
Now she knew the shape of the tool that had used her.
She walked out of the studio, her heels clicking with a steady, deliberate rhythm on the polished concrete. Her face was a perfect, unreadable mask. Inside, a single, icy thought crystallized, hard and sharp as a diamond.
No one owns me.