Contains sexual content, but it is censored starting from "I hear a cupboard door creak open behind me."

Censoring here means I do not name genitalia and use indirect descriptions of hands touching the most intimate places.

You can pay $3 to unlock the uncensored version of this chapter and all explicit extras on my Patreon https://www.patreon.com/collection/LoveInTheBlue 

So this was it, the safe house. A luxury stone townhouse, two stories of glass framed in sleek black metal and standing in a shell of grey marble. The entrance jutted forward like a half diamond, creating an overhang and the impression that this was some sleek futuristic dwelling. Let's be honest. It was a townhouse. One with quite beautiful synthetic red trees in the front garden and with strips of golden light edging the path, but still a look-alike to the others in the row, one of dozens lining a pedestrian street where wide swatches of synthetic grass lined the sidewalks and synth plants mixed with rounded terrariums featuring real exotic flora. Mr Killer passes me an antique key and I don’t know what he expects. “What is this?”

“The key,” he said. And yet, where would you scan it? Why give it to me? Was this my house now? I almost laugh at the thought. I must be tired.

I make the only logical choice and step forward and smack the key against the sleek black door inlaid with thick glass in the hopes the scanning mechanism would connect. Of course, nothing happens.

He sighes, pluckes back the key, shoves it into the tiny hole, turnes it in the lock, and pushes the door open. Sounds of people spill out, children laughing and footsteps thudding across the floor. I see a woman in the kitchen chatting on a phone as a televiewer news anchor droned in the background. “Did you forget to tell me something,” I say, stunned that an entire family seems to be living here.

"I'm home," he called.

The lights flicker, the laughter cuts off, and the woman dissolves into shimmering static before vanishing entirely. Only a sharply dressed man remains standing by the entryway, hands clasped in a welcoming gesture, motionless and tucked in the corner, presumably also not real.

"Why...?" I ask.

"Must I answer everything?” he replies. “An empty house is suspicious."

I follow him inside, taking in the sight of more synthetic plants in pots, a rough concrete layering of shelves from floor to ceiling holding an assortment of shoes beside a monotone bench, and paneling set with indented red handholds.

I wander over to the humanoid robotic butler standing in the corner, eyes looking to nowhere in particular. I wave my hand in front of its face and notice the eyes glow brighter, then dim. "I think this one is out of batteries," I say.

I turn to Mr Killer and my thoughts stutter at the sight of the closet behind one of the panels that contains so many gun holsters that I question if it counts as a bondage collection. He clicks shut the panel and sits down heavily on the bench to remove his boots. I look down at my worn yellow converse. Oops. Forgot to buy new shoes. Meanwhile, Mr killer starts sliding on slippers that had been kept under the bench and responds to my criticism. “It’s not the visible security you should worry about. And I already registered you so of course the security system won't react," he says.

He double-checks that the front door is locked and moves towards the kitchen. I hear doors open and close and the rattling of things being moved around. I contemplate whether my shoes must stay at the door. A small familiar vacuum exists from the wall and eventually stops beside my shoes. Its presence is judging me. I sit my bum down where Mr Killed had been moments before and tuck my shoes under the bench before padding quietly along the hall in black socks.

At the end of the hallway is a fancy kitchen, black cabinets and gold trim. A photo is stuck with a magnet to the fridge. Weird. People didn't need those ice boxes since the powder based meal dispensers basically printed food to go. The photo is displaying Mr Killer as an older brother with his arm around a happy younger sibling. I question its reality. People bringing their dream family to life with AI, robotics, and holograms is a common story. I always wonder if such people got what they wanted or whether they were more miserable.

I move into an open living room adjoining the kitchen, half wondering where Mr Killer went. A grey blocky sofa, a mini fridge, dimmed lights, and projector screen. An old popcorn maker rests in the corner, kernels freshly popping. I close the distance and nibble some, idly crunching as I inspect the space.

"I need to change. Browse the televiewer streams if you're bored," his voice carries from further into the house. A door shuts.

My eyes shift to an ID card resting on the side table. It displays the logo of an electric power plant company and the name Frederick. I plop down in one of the comfortable chairs and pick it up. “Is your name Fredrick?” I ask aloud.

“It’s a fake,” he replies. Hmm. Would he tell me his name?

I open the mini fridge and see rows of wine on top and blood packs on the bottom. You would think the poor guy was a vampire.

"Markell."

"Mark eh. What?" I try to catch up with his out-of-context words.

"My name. It’s Markell. Mark to most." I shut the mini fridge and remain in quiet thought. What on earth would we do from here? This guy still needed drugs to live. He had just killed someone from his own company, out of spite or who knows. And he had not killed nor tossed me because Mr Killer - Mark - was a smart man. All signs pointed to me being more important than I had known. And I did know now, didn’t I? I could apparently cure this man, but...

"Janie," he calls, breaking my train of thought.

"Hmm, yes." I acknowledge. I open the mini fridge again, half board, half contemplating if the wine will help in this situation. No. This was fine. I could trust him to protect me for his interests. And, whether I revealed my secret or not, I could use him until I knew the truth.

"Do you think you can keep that a secret? I don't want work trouble to follow me home. Most people are looking for Louis." I wonder if he’s joking. Perhaps not. "Sure,” I say. “I mean, Janie doesn't exist either. What can I hold against you?" Even though it was his company's fault that I had to ditch my name.

I pull out a bottle, swirl the red contents thinking about the little pink vials Donnie handed out, and try to pull the cork with my fingers. It’s naturally stuck so I move back to the kitchen to search for the opener. Utensils clink. Drawers slide and snap shut.

A cook book. Spices. I've only heard of some of these. I uncap one and sniff. Wow it smells nice. I open further cupboards full of bandages and first aid supplies, boxes of bullets, ID badges, a box of electric garbage including decades old phones, and finally an extensive and lavish looking soap collection.

"How...romantic?" I mumble. Clearly he didn't invite anyone here.

I hear a cupboard door creak open behind me.

Mark.

He isn’t even looking at me. He gracefully selects a wine glass from an upper cupboard and sets it beside himself on the black marbled counter where a wine opener was already waiting. From this side profile I could appreciate the loose knit sweater and ripped-in the-knees bluejeans. His dark, slightly curled short hair appeared slightly damp against his pale neck.

Danm. How long had I zoned out…