The Evaluation
"She's evaluated hundreds of graduates. But this one she raised—and he's not going to make it easy."
Soren
Five years.
Five years of learning to touch without feeling. To whisper without meaning it. To make them believe they're the only one while keeping the truth locked somewhere they'll never find it.
Tonight, I use it all on the only woman who ever mattered.
I stand before the mirror in my quarters, adjusting the collar of my black shirt. Not student whites—I'm done with those. Tomorrow I belong to Elise Vance-Kincaid, some corporate heiress in Neo-Seoul who paid fourteen million credits for the privilege of owning me.
But tonight, I belong to myself.
And I'm going to show Madame Tanaka what she's been pretending not to see for five years.
Yuki
The evaluation suite smells like jasmine and expensive lies.
I've done this four hundred and thirty-seven times. I know exactly how the evening will unfold: the student enters, performs the seduction sequence, demonstrates technical proficiency and emotional manipulation. I take notes. I score. I sign the certification.
Clinical. Professional. Detached.
I settle into the observation chair, clipboard balanced on my knee, and tell myself that Subject 23-Vance will be no different.
The door opens.
He's not wearing white.
Soren stands in the doorway in black—shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms, every line of him deliberate. He's not walking like a student approaching an exam. He's walking like a man who's already decided how this ends.
Oh, I think. Oh no.
"Good evening, Madame Tanaka." His voice is deeper than I remember. When did that happen? "Thank you for agreeing to evaluate me."
"I didn't agree." The words come out sharper than intended. "I was assigned."
"I know." He smiles, and there's nothing boyish in it. "I requested you."
My pen stops moving.
"That's... irregular."
"I told Director Chen that you know me better than any other faculty member. That your evaluation would be the most thorough." He moves closer, each step measured. "She agreed."
He's not wrong. I do know him. I know the nightmares that plagued him his first year, when he'd knock on my door at 3 AM shaking. I know how he takes his tea. I know the scar on his shoulder from a colony mining accident, the way he hums old Earth songs when he thinks no one's listening.
I know I should have recused myself the moment I saw the assignment.
"The evaluation parameters are standard," I say, forcing my voice steady. "You will demonstrate seduction technique, emotional attunement, and physical proficiency. I will observe and score. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly." He stops three feet away. Close enough that I can smell him—sandalwood and something darker underneath. "Should I begin?"
"Please."
Soren
She thinks she's ready.
She's not.
I start slow. That's what they taught us—never rush, let the tension build. I circle her chair, trailing my fingers along its back, close enough that she can feel the heat of me but never quite touching.
"You look beautiful tonight, Madame."
"Flattery is elementary technique." Her pen scratches against the clipboard. "I expect more creativity from a fifth-year."
"It's not flattery." I lean down, my mouth near her ear. "I've thought you were beautiful since the day I arrived. Eighteen years old, terrified, drowning in debt I didn't ask for. And there you were. The only person in this place who looked at me like I was human."
Her breath catches. Just slightly. Anyone else would miss it.
I don't miss anything about her.
"Soren—"
"That's the first time you've used my name." I move around to face her, crouching down so we're eye level. "In five years. Always 'Mr. Vance.' Always 'student.' Never Soren."
"The evaluation requires professional distance."
"And the last five years?" I reach out, brush a strand of silver-streaked hair from her face. She doesn't pull away. "What was that?"
Yuki
I should stop this.
I should stand up, walk out, report him for protocol violation. I should do anything except sit here while his fingers trace down my jaw, my neck, the collar of my dress.
"What are you doing?" I whisper.
"Showing you what I learned." His thumb brushes my pulse point. He can feel it racing. "Every technique. Every skill. I practiced them on others and thought of you. Every time."
"That's—"
"Inappropriate? Against the rules?" He leans closer. "I know. I don't care."
I should stop this.
I don't.
"The evaluation," I manage. "You need to pass."
"Then evaluate me." His hand slides to the back of my neck, gentle but certain. "Tell me what you feel, Madame. Score my technique. Is this—" he presses his lips to my throat, soft as silk, "—sufficient?"
The clipboard trembles in my hands. I write something. I have no idea what.
"Adequate," I breathe.
"Just adequate?" He kisses higher, just below my ear. "I'll have to do better."
Soren
She tastes like green tea and restraint.
I've imagined this so many times—what sounds she'd make, how her composure would crack. Reality is better. She's shaking, trying so hard to maintain control, and every tremor is a victory.
"Tell me to stop," I murmur against her skin. "If you want me to stop, say the word. I'll walk out, take my certification, disappear to Neo-Seoul. You'll never have to see me again."
Her hand finds my chest. I wait for her to push me away.
She fists my shirt and pulls me closer.
"Don't you dare."
The clipboard hits the floor.
Yuki
Twenty years.
Twenty years of perfect professionalism, and it shatters in three words.
I kiss him like I'm drowning. Like I've been holding my breath since the day he walked into Crane Hall, eighteen and broken and looking at me with those eyes that saw too much. He kisses me back like he's been waiting his whole life for permission.
"The door," I gasp.
"Locked. Soundproofed." He lifts me from the chair like I weigh nothing. "I planned this, Yuki."
Yuki. Not Madame. Not Tanaka-san.
Just me.
He carries me to the bed—because of course there's a bed, this is an evaluation suite—and lays me down with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
"I've thought about this every night for five years," he says, settling over me. "What you'd look like underneath me. What sounds you'd make. Whether you'd call me by my name when you came."
"Soren—"
"Yes." He kisses me again, deeper. "Exactly like that."
Soren
She's more beautiful than I imagined.
Every inch of her—the silver in her hair, the lines at the corners of her eyes, the soft curve of her stomach. She tries to hide, to cover herself, and I pin her wrists above her head.
"No." I kiss between her breasts. "I want to see you. All of you."
"I'm not—" She swallows. "I'm not young."
"You're perfect." I release her wrists, trail my hands down her body. "You're everything I want. You always have been."
I've spent five years learning to make women fall apart. Techniques, pressure points, rhythms. I know exactly how to play a body until it sings.
With her, I don't need any of it.
I just need her—the hitch of her breath when I find the right spot, the way she arches into my touch, the sound of my name breaking on her lips. She's not a client to be performed for. She's Yuki. The woman who held me when I cried. Who bandaged my wounds and never asked questions. Who looked at a debt-slave from the colonies and saw someone worth saving.
I make love to her like I'm saying thank you.
Like I'm saying goodbye.
Yuki
He is devastating.
Not just the skill—though that's considerable, five years of elite training evident in every touch. It's the way he looks at me. Like I'm precious. Like every moment is something he's memorizing.
"I love you," he says, moving inside me. "I've loved you since I was nineteen and you sat with me through a fever that almost killed me. I've loved you for five years and I'll love you until I die."
I shouldn't say it back. It's unprofessional. It's inappropriate. It changes everything.
"I love you too." The words fall out like stones. "God help me, I love you too."
He kisses me, and I stop thinking about should and shouldn't. I stop thinking about tomorrow, about Neo-Seoul, about the contract that takes him away from me. There's only now. Only us. Only this impossible, forbidden thing we've finally stopped pretending isn't real.
When I fall apart in his arms, I don't scream.
I whisper his name like a prayer.
Soren
Dawn comes too fast.
She's asleep in my arms, silver hair spread across my chest, one hand curled over my heart. The neon glow of Neo-Tokyo bleeds through the windows, painting her in shades of pink and gold.
I have three hours before the transport to Neo-Seoul.
I don't want to wake her. I want to freeze this moment, live inside it forever. But I've never lied to her, and I won't start now.
"Yuki."
She stirs. Blinks up at me. For one second, there's nothing but warmth in her eyes—then she remembers. I watch the walls try to go back up.
"The contract," she says.
"Signed. Non-negotiable." I brush my thumb across her cheek. "Five years. She owns my service for five years."
"And then?"
"Then I buy myself back." I've done the math a thousand times. "I'll save everything. Work extra contracts. Whatever it takes. Five years, maybe six, and I'll be free."
"That's a long time."
"I know." I pull her closer, press my forehead to hers. "Wait for me?"
She's quiet for a long moment. I feel her breathing. Feel the weight of everything we've just broken.
"I can't promise—"
"I'm not asking for a promise." I kiss her, soft and slow. "I'm asking for a door. Leave it open. That's all I need. Just don't close it all the way."
Yuki
He leaves at sunrise.
I watch from the window as the transport lifts off, its running lights blinking against the grey sky. He doesn't look back. We agreed he wouldn't—one of us might break.
On the nightstand, his evaluation form lies unsigned. I pick it up, stare at the blank spaces where his scores should be.
Technical proficiency. Emotional attunement. Physical skill.
I think about the way he touched me. The way he saw me—not as Madame Tanaka, not as a role or a title, but as Yuki. The woman underneath the composure.
I write three perfect scores. Sign my name.
At the bottom, in the comments section, I add four words:
Door remains open. Waiting.
Then I fold the form, seal it in an envelope, and walk back to Crane Hall.
There are new students arriving today. Boys who will become men under my care. I'll keep my distance, maintain my professionalism, never cross another line.
But every night, I'll look at the stars and think of Neo-Seoul.
And every night, I'll leave the door unlocked.
Just in case.