Arin returned to the apartment and collapsed onto the edge of his bed, the silence of the empty room pressing against his ears.
'Where could she have gone this early?' he wondered, staring at the ceiling. 'Jenny doesn't have Aunt Jas's habit of taking morning walks in the public park, does she?
He exhaled sharply. "Man… this quest is going to be impossible if I don't find her."
Fingers already moving out of habit, he opened Sinstagram, then Fakebook, scrolling through profiles and stories. Nothing. Of course there was nothing—smart people never used their real names online. Minutes bled away with zero leads.
He switched to Hoogle Maps and checked the route to Auxmino Theatre. Forty-five minutes by bus on a good day, no traffic.
The theatre sat on the far southern edge of Armino City—practically the opposite end from where he lived. Personal rides flashed on the screen next, but the prices made him wince. Out of budget.
To make it on time, he'd have to leave by 1:00 p.m. sharp. The clock on his phone read 11:19 a.m.
He shot out of the room and jogged to the nearby public park anyway, hoping against hope. Fifteen fruitless minutes later he was back, frustration etched deeper into his face.
'Did I really screw up that badly last night? Was it so awful she had to vanish?' The thought twisted in his gut. 'No… something unexpected must have come up. It has to be'.
All he could do now was wait—or rather, hope she returned before he had to leave.
Time crawled forward mercilessly. When the clock finally hit 12:55 p.m., Arin grabbed his keys. Black trousers, beige sneakers, a simple T-shirt beneath a loose hoodie. Good enough.
He reached the bus stop just as the first ride pulled in.
The moment Arin stepped onto the bus, his system snapped to life without warning. Translucent panels shimmered into view—but only above married women.
He grabbed a pole as the bus jerked forward, his breath catching.
——————
Name: Roxie Veroni
Age: 29
Desire: Anal
Situation: Unsatisfied marriage, arrogant mother-in-law, full-time housewife
——————
His gaze darted to the next one.
——————
Name: Honie Clause
Age: 34
Desire: To be dominated and pinned down
Situation: Rude husband, zero satisfaction in bed, housewife
——————
Dozens of women boarded and disembarked as the buses rolled on, each one tagged by the system's merciless spotlight.
Unsatisfied. Unsatisfied. Unsatisfied.
The words glowed crimson above every married woman over twenty-five, a silent parade of hidden frustration.
Arin swallowed hard, his throat dry. 'I really thought everyone out there was happy…'
He almost laughed at his own naivety. 'No wonder Sinstagram and Fakebook are nothing but filtered smiles and fake vacations. The truth is floating right above their heads, and only I can see it'.
A few minutes later, someone vacated a window seat. Arin slipped into it gratefully. Two more transfers, three buses total, and he finally boarded the last one that would drop him near Auxmino Theatre.
The bus was packed shoulder-to-shoulder, the air thick with perfume and exhaustion. Arin's eyes kept drifting, helplessly reading the glowing panels that only he could see.
Then the bus slowed at the next stop.
A woman stepped onto the bus.
She wore a red dress that looked wet, the kind of glossy crimson that drank the light and threw it back sharper. A wine-colored purse with a golden handle hung from her forearm like a royal scepter. Her heels were silent now, but every gaze followed the slow, deliberate sway of her hips as she moved deeper into the crowd.
No empty seats. Of course not.
She drifted forward until her fingers, long, glossy, blood-red nails, curled around the metal pole directly beside Arin.
The scent hit him first: Amber Hues by Veronica, something expensive and filthy underneath.
Arin stood before his brain caught up with his body.
Arin rose before he could second-guess himself.
"Excuse me, ma'am… would you like this seat? My stop's almost here," he said, keeping his tone polite, almost formal.
She turned her head, slow and deliberate, and looked at him (really looked), as though she were measuring something only she could see.
"Sure," she answered, voice low and velvet-rough, the single word curling in the air like smoke.
Arin stepped back. She moved past him, the faint brush of silk against his forearm sending an electric jolt straight to his spine. Then she sank into the seat with liquid grace, crossing her legs as if the cracked plastic were a throne.
"Thank you, kid," she said, lips curving into a half-smile that felt more like a dare than gratitude.
"You're welcome, ma'am," he replied automatically, warmth in his voice even as his gaze snapped upward.
The panel blazed into existence above her, brighter than any he'd seen all day, the letters practically throbbing.
—————
Name: Lyra Queen
Age: 31
Desire: Non-stop sex
Situation: Recently divorced, fitness model, Chronically unsatisfied sex life.
—————
'Non-stop sex… what the hell does that even mean?'. The words throbbed above her like a neon warning, raw and unapologetic.
He had seen every shade of hidden craving today: women dreaming of being choked, tied, worshipped, ruined. But this? This wasn't a fantasy. This was a demand written in fire.
Hours? Days? Until one of them collapses? Until there's nothing left to take?.
Arin's throat went dry.
'I've never seen a desire this absolute. This woman isn't just hungry… she's fucking insane'. He murmured in flabbergasted.
A few minutes later the bus hissed to a stop. Arin stepped down onto the cracked pavement, the heat of the afternoon already rising from the asphalt.
Lyra Queen followed right behind him, heels clicking in perfect rhythm.
He turned, half-surprised, and offered a small, polite smile.
"Ma'am… are you here for the movie too?"
"Yeah," she answered, voice lazy and warm, like she was already bored of the question.
"Oh. Same here."
They fell into step together, the short three-minute walk to Auxmino Theatre stretching out in strangely comfortable silence. Sunlight glinted off her wine-colored purse; the red dress shimmered with every stride.
At the main gate, a man leaned against the wall, plain shirt with faint white stripes, navy-coloured leggings tucked into polished formal shoes, arms crossed.
The moment Lyra spotted him, something shifted in her entire posture. Her shoulders softened. Her pace quickened into a half-run, heels forgotten, purse swinging wildly.
She threw herself at him like she belonged there, like gravity itself had decided she was his.
The man opened his arms, caught her, and smiled down at her with lazy ownership.
Then he turned his face fully into the light.
Arin froze.
"Is that… the bastard who made Jenny cry?" Arin muttered under his breath, the words barely louder than the blood roaring in his ears.