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CHAPTER 1
Dahlia
Not gonna lie, this is my favorite part.
Okay, maybe not myabsolutefavorite.
But watching pollsters on my heavily encrypted social media app lose their minds always gives me a buzz.
I watch two contenders battle it out until it hits the 85% mark, then the fickle public, as they always do, rallies behind one.
Tonight’s clear winner hits 92%, and I grin.
Obsidian Corp it is.
I don’t use the actual entity names beforehand, of course, because that would be stupid.
Obsidian is only known as ‘Triple D’ to my pollsters.
Lying on my stomach in bed, legs tangled in my sheets, chin propped on one hand, I wait for the stragglers to get on board. I like to get as close to 100% as I can.
There’s a delayed gratification to that—a sizzling in my veins that comes with righteous sinning. That’s a high I like to skate as long as possible. Forget drugs, it comes as close to sex as I can get.
So while the disgruntled few whose initial picks didn’t make the cut make up their minds, I swipe lazily across the screen.
The poll numbers spike in real time. Thousands of anonymous voices weighing in on who deserves a taste of my justice.
My fingers hover over the voting breakdown.
Each name on the list makes my blood boil.
? A billionaire hedge fund vampire who crashed a housing market for sport.
? A pharmaceutical exec who jacked insulin prices mid-pandemic and is still at it.
? A prince with offshore accounts full of human trafficking money.
? Triple D, founder of “O” Corp, crypto king, rumored sadist, silent investor in all the above.
The comments under his name are extra spicy.
"That Triple D guy gives me the creeps."
"Didn’t his bio say he blackmailed a journalist into disappearing?"
“Such a shame he’s fuck-hot. Or is it??!”
“Do him and I’ll tattoo your name on my ass."
I chuckle. My followers are feral, and I love them for it.
I’m no saint. I’ve never claimed to be. But there’s something delicious about righteous vengeance dressed in latex and filtered through a voice modulator. I steal. I expose. I redistribute. I livestream it all. And if I get a little thrill watching corrupt assholes rage and lose their minds as they promise to hunt me down and “insert extremely unimaginative punishment of choice here”—also, dream on, fuckers?Bonus.
When I hit 96%, I flip onto my back, flick out of the poll and swipe to another app. Just to… peek. I may be putting the proverbial cart before the horse, but I’m already dreaming up ways to reward myself once I’m done notching another win under my belt.
The Club app opens in full dark mode, purring like a secret lover.
It was a joke at first—signing up. A little curiosity, a little mischief. I never expected to keep it. But somehow, logging on after a job has become a ritual, although tonight I’m doing it before, not after. Which, if I believed in superstition, I would be fucked. But I don’t, so…