The Adjuster
"Claim denied. Unless he comes to her office and negotiates in person."
The letter arrives on the worst day of my life.
Claim #4471-X: DENIED. Reason: Policy exclusion 7.3(a). Property damage resulting from civil unrest is not covered under your current plan.
My restaurant. My life's work. Burned to ash during the Neo-Chicago riots, and now some faceless corporation is telling me I'm not getting a single credit.
I call the number on the letter.
Fight through seventeen automated menus.
Finally get a human.
"Mr. Okonkwo, I understand your frustration, but the decision is final. However—" A pause. "—if you'd like to appeal in person, you can schedule an appointment with our senior claims manager."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Three PM. Ask for Mrs. Kowalski."
The insurance tower is forty stories of glass and condescension.
I pass through security, ride an elevator that smells like money and desperation, and find myself in a waiting room that's probably designed to break people. Hard chairs. Fluorescent lights. Motivational posters about "partnership" and "protection" that mock everything I'm feeling.
"Mr. Okonkwo?"
I look up.
And forget about my restaurant.
Mrs. Kowalski is not what I expected.
Fifty-one years old, according to the nameplate on the desk behind her. Senior Claims Manager, fifteen years with the company, the kind of title that means she decides who gets paid and who gets ruined.
She's also built like a weapon.
Two-fifty, easily. Thick everywhere—curves straining against a suit in charcoal grey that costs more than my monthly rent. Her skin is pale and freckled, her hair a red-grey wave, her face sharp and knowing and utterly without mercy.
"Follow me."
I follow.
Her office is on the corner of the fortieth floor.
Windows overlooking the city, furniture that screams power, a desk the size of my destroyed kitchen. She settles into her chair like a queen ascending a throne and gestures for me to sit.
"Your claim." She pulls up a tablet. "Property damage during civil unrest. Total loss. Estimated value: 2.3 million credits."
"That's correct."
"And you're aware that civil unrest is excluded under section 7.3(a) of your policy?"
"I'm aware that I've paid premiums for twelve years. Never missed a payment. Never filed a claim." I lean forward. "And now, when I actually need the coverage I've been paying for, you're hiding behind fine print."
"It's not fine print. It's the contract you signed."
"I signed a contract that was supposed to protect me. That's what insurance is."
"Insurance is risk management." Her eyes are cold. "We accept your premiums in exchange for covering specific risks. Civil unrest is not one of them."
"So I'm just supposed to accept that my life's work is gone? That twelve years of loyalty means nothing?"
"Unless—" She pauses. Sets down the tablet. "—you have something else to offer."
"What are you suggesting?"
I know what she's suggesting. The way she's looking at me—up and down, cataloguing, assessing—makes it unmistakable.
"I have a certain amount of... discretion. In edge cases." She stands, moves around the desk. Her body moves like a weapon, each step deliberate, threatening. "Your policy is clear. But policies have exceptions. Clauses that can be interpreted. Supervisors who can be convinced."
"And you're offering to convince them?"
"I'm offering to advocate for your case. Personally." She stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell her—expensive perfume, something floral masking something darker. "But advocacy requires... motivation."
"What kind of motivation?"
She reaches down. Cups my cock through my pants.
I'm already hard. Hate myself for it. Can't help it.
"This kind." Her voice drops. "Give me what I want, Mr. Okonkwo. And I'll give you your 2.3 million credits."
This is extortion.
I should leave. Report her. Find a lawyer. Fight this through proper channels that will take years and cost money I don't have.
Instead, I grab her wrist.
"Here? Now?"
"My office is soundproofed. My secretary knows not to interrupt." Her other hand finds my belt. "Unless you'd rather walk away with nothing?"
I look at her. At this woman who holds my future in her hands. At the power she wields with the casual cruelty of someone who's been doing this for years.
And something shifts inside me.
Not submission. Hunger.
"Take off your clothes," I tell her.
Her eyes widen.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I stand, forcing her to step back. "You want to play power games? Fine. But I'm not going to beg for what's mine. I'm not going to perform for you like some desperate supplicant." I grab her jacket lapels. Pull her close. "You're going to give me my money. And then you're going to give me you. On my terms."
She stares at me.
And slowly, impossibly, she smiles.
"Finally." She breathes the word. "Someone who understands."
"Understands what?"
"That I'm not looking for submission. I'm looking for someone who takes." She pulls free of my grip. Begins unbuttoning her jacket. "Do you know how many men sit in that chair, weeping, begging, offering me whatever I want? Dozens. Hundreds. All of them pathetic."
The jacket falls.
"But you—" She pulls off her blouse. "—you want to fight. You want to make this a negotiation between equals. That's—" The bra joins the pile. "—that's what I've been waiting for."
Her body is a battlefield.
Massive breasts, freckled and heavy, nipples pink and hardening. A belly that rounds soft and full, marked with life. Hips that could stop traffic, thighs that could crush bones.
She looks at me like she expects worship.
I give her war.
I push her back against her desk. Spin her around. Press her chest flat against the glass surface while I yank down her skirt, her underwear, everything that's between me and what I want.
"Is this what you wanted?" I growl in her ear. "Someone who doesn't bow?"
"Yes—"
"Say it louder."
"Yes—I want this—I want you—"
I drop to my knees. Spread her thick thighs. And bury my face in her from behind.
She tastes like power.
Sharp and musky, wet enough to coat my tongue. I eat her aggressively—none of the reverence I'd give a lover, all the intensity I'd give a rival. My tongue finds her clit and attacks it, making her cry out, making her grip the edge of her expensive desk.
"Fuck—you're—that's—"
"Don't talk. Just feel."
I work her until she's shaking. Until her thighs are trembling, until she's whimpering, until the Senior Claims Manager of one of the largest insurance companies in Neo-Chicago is reduced to moans and desperation.
Then I stop.
"Wh-what—"
"We're negotiating." I stand up. Unbuckle my belt. "I give you something. You give me something. That's how this works."
"You bastard."
"Say yes to my claim first."
"Yes—fine—your claim is approved—just fuck me—"
I fuck her like I'm settling a debt.
Bend her over her own desk, grip those wide hips, and drive into her with everything the past month has built up. The anger at losing my restaurant. The frustration at fighting bureaucracy. The desperation of watching my life turn to ash.
All of it pours into her.
"Harder—"
"Tell me I deserve this."
"You deserve it—you deserve everything—god—"
"Tell me you're going to approve every claim I ever file."
"Every one—fuck—every single one—"
"Tell me I own this."
"You own it—you own me—just don't stop—"
I don't stop.
I pound into her until she's screaming, until her orgasm hits her like a storm, until she's clenching around me so hard I see stars. And when I come, I come with a roar that rattles her windows.
We collapse onto her desk.
Papers scattered. Tablet cracked. Both of us sweating, panting, tangled together in a way that no insurance policy could possibly cover.
"Well." Her voice is hoarse. "That was... unexpected."
"Is my claim really approved?"
"It was approved before you walked in the door. I flagged it for exception last week." She laughs at my expression. "I don't actually extort clients, Mr. Okonkwo. I just wanted to see what you'd do."
"You—you were testing me?"
"I was selecting you." She rolls over, looks up at me with those sharp eyes. "I'm very rich, very powerful, and very bored. I don't want men who beg. I want men who take."
"So this was... a job interview?"
"More like a compatibility assessment." She traces a finger down my chest. "You passed. Spectacularly."
My restaurant rebuilds.
2.3 million credits, delivered within the week, no questions asked. I hire new staff, order new equipment, start fresh in a location that's even better than the original.
And every Friday evening, I visit the insurance tower.
Mrs. Kowalski—Helen, she tells me to call her—is waiting. Sometimes in her office, sometimes in the penthouse she keeps in the building, sometimes in the back of her company car with the privacy screens raised.
We don't call it dating. We call it negotiation.
"Your policy renewal is due," she tells me one night.
We're in her penthouse, tangled in sheets that cost more than my new stove. Her body is soft and heavy against mine, her head on my chest, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin.
"I assume I have good rates?"
"The best in the territory." She looks up at me. "But I was thinking of offering you a different kind of coverage."
"What kind?"
"The permanent kind." She's quiet for a moment. "I'm fifty-one years old, Daniel. I've spent my whole career in this tower, moving numbers around, deciding who gets saved and who gets ruined. It's made me rich. It's made me powerful. It's made me absolutely fucking miserable."
"What do you want?"
"I want to feel something. The way I feel when you're inside me, when you're fighting me, when you treat me like an equal instead of an institution." Her eyes meet mine. "I want to keep feeling that. Every day. Forever."
I pull her on top of me.
"Then let's negotiate."
She retires the next year.
The insurance world is shocked—their most profitable claims manager, walking away at the height of her career. They offer her bonuses, promotions, everything they can think of.
She turns it all down.
Because she's with me now. In my restaurant, in my apartment, in the life we've built from the wreckage of my burned-down dreams.
"Do you ever regret it?" I ask her.
We're in the kitchen of my new place, the one she helped me rebuild. She's wearing an apron—just an apron—and her body fills it in ways that make me forget about the prep work I'm supposed to be doing.
"Regret what? The money? The power?" She laughs. "I spent thirty years accumulating both. It never made me feel the way you make me feel when you push me against the counter."
"Is that a request?"
"It's a claim." She turns, presses back against me. "And I expect full coverage."
I give her everything she's owed.
Policy: Active.
Coverage: Unlimited.
Beneficiary: Both of us.