The stillness was a palpable weight, like the air before a thunderstorm breaks. The sudden jarring vibration of Rava's phone in his pocket resonated through his whole being, from the tips of his fingers to the base of his skull. The commonplace ringtone now sounded thunderously loud.
He gasped involuntarily. A searing pain lanced through his chest, as though his lungs had momentarily forgotten how to function. His knees buckled, becoming jelly-like. Rava swallowed hard, his mouth instantly dry as a desert.
He knew. Without having to cast even a fleeting glance at the screen. It could only be HIM.
A panicked storm of thoughts whirled:
He knows. Knows I'm not home. How? I said nothing...
A cold wave of dread cascaded down his spine. Gooseflesh erupted across his skin. For a fleeting moment, he was certain someone was behind him - he spun around, nearly losing his balance. Nothing. But that signified nothing.
"Rava?" The owner's voice sounded faint, unreal, as if echoing from another world.
His head swam. His palms were slick with sweat. "No, he can't be here. He can't," but reason had already been submerged by raw, animal fear.
"I-I've g-got to..." The words choked; his tongue suddenly heavy.
Without waiting for any reply, Rava sprinted towards the exit, forgetting to remove his apron. The strap dug into his neck, but the sensation barely registered. All that mattered was to run. Faster.
Behind him, Iris's annoyed voice cut through the air:
"What the hell? He promised to take out the trash!"
But Rava was already gone. The door slammed shut with such force that even the most ill-tempered customer would have winced sympathetically.
In the stunned silence that followed, Ivi took a steadying breath and, forcing the conversation back to the present, asked:
"So. About the new hire...?"
Rava ran.
Each breath scraped against his lungs, like swallowing embers instead of air. His legs burned, his soles slid on the asphalt, but stopping wasn't an option. To stop meant to yield.
9:15 PM.
Less than an hour until his stream. His phone vibrated in his pocket, viewers were already gathered in chat, anticipating his arrival. None of that mattered anymore. The only thing that did: get home first.
What if he's already there?
The thought was a stab. What if he was waiting by the entrance? In the stairwell? Behind the door? Rava wasn't running home – he was running straight into a trap. But even a trap felt safer than the alternative: being exposed. An enraged tiger leaves no remains.
The neighbourhood was peaceful. Immaculate streets, cameras on every corner, neighbours who wouldn't tolerate any noise past ten. Rava had selected this place for a reason. Here, no one could seize him by the throat on the stairs, pin him to a wall, silence him. Here, no one could strike him where no one would hear. At least, that's what he had convinced himself of. Hope was delicate.
He made it.No car of that specific make and colour parked outside. Not yet. Rava crashed into the stairwell, bounding up the steps, stumbling, gasping for air. His hands shook so violently the keys slipped from his grip, clattering against concrete. He snatched them up, dropped them again, nearly snarling with frustration. "Faster, faster, faster"
The door finally yielded.
Silence.
An empty apartment. No sound. No movement. No trace of his cologne, thick, suffocating, woven into the walls.
Rava slid down the wall, collapsing onto the floor. Nausea crept up his throat. He swallowed hard, shut his eyes tight, forcing the knot of fear back down. Not now. Not now. His gaze flickered to the clock. Thirty minutes until the stream. He pushed himself upright, ripping off the apron, throwing it into the corner. Stumbled to the sink, turned the water on ice cold, to jolt his brain from panic, to wash away the phantom touch of hands that weren't his.
God. He loathed this. Hated every breath, every glance over his shoulder, every call, every second spent wondering if someone was just outside the door. But most of all, he hated that he'd ceased fighting back.
Rava pasted on a saccharine smile, forcing his voice into a flirty, playful tone:
"Miiiiissed you sooo much, booooys~" His tone dripped with artificial honey, cloying, sickeningly sweet.
Tonight's character "Cow" - had been selected by his top donor. He'd prepared meticulously: pink ears with horns, a skintight spotted crop top that barely covered anything... and the tail. A special one, never displayed on camera, but betrayed by suggestive sounds with every shift of his hips. He fidgeted in his chair, trying to ease the discomfort of the thing. The chat exploded:
[***]: Pretend I'm your shepherd and we *****
[***]: Lick that tail pretty boy!!!
[***]: How do I become that rag?
Rava crossed his legs, letting out an exaggerated moan before laughing: a brittle, forced sound. His fingers tapped the desk nervously.
"Sooo bored just sitting here!" His voice trilled with forced cheerfulness. "Let's play my favourite game... The top donor in two minutes decides what I do! Otherwise..." He bit his lip. "I might just end the stream!"
Inside, his stomach churned with disgust. But his face maintained its drowsy smile, his voice its sugary purr. He caught himself mentally calculating donation sums, subtracting platform cuts and taxes before they'd even cleared.
The chat throbbed with ceaseless notifications. Small donations poured in like confetti, punctuated by the occasional larger amounts. Rava conspicuously ignored the flood, turning to stare at the wall clock with feigned indifference. His fingers danced at the desk's edge, betraying the tension his lax posture attempted to convey.
"Aaaand..." He prolonged the vowel, throat dry. "Time's up!"
Swivelling back to the cam, he flashed a bright, strained smile. His hand trembled slightly as he pulled up the top donation. He already knew what it would say: the same crude fantasies that made his skin crawl.
The message popped up. Rava barely stifled a grimace. Predictable. Exactly what you'd anticipate from a middle-aged man watching from his bathroom while his family slept down the hall.
"Ohhh, boys, you're wild tonight~" His voice dripped with sugar, but tension tightened his eyes. "Then again... who made you this way?" He coyly covered his face, taking a moment to swallow the lump in his throat. "Fine, gimme two minutes to prep... for this... special request."
He scooted back, pretending to hunt for props. Really, he just needed those precious seconds to breathe through the nausea. His reflection in the mirror looked alien: painted eyes, fake blush, a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Just a few more hours," he reminded himself.
"Then you can wash this off. And perhaps... some of this feeling too."