Dominance Evolution System: Sweat, Sex, and Streetball

The cold of the stone seeped through the fabric of her jacket, but Saya didn’t move. She stayed there, forearms resting on the balustrade, her gaze lost somewhere between the poorly trimmed hedges of the garden and the grey-orange sky of the eternal twilight that never really changed, that only pretended to fall without ever quite managing it.

She listened, despite herself, to the fragments of laughter that reached her from inside. A voice she recognized as Kai’s, a sharp burst of laughter that had to be Chio, the deeper rumble of a group laugh shared around a joke she would never hear. Every sound reminded her a little more that she was outside, literally and symbolically, separated by a simple glass door from something she had no right to claim.

She thought back, without wanting to, to everything that had led her here. The leak. Jinzo, Mac, their petty plans and their resentment that had sucked her in with them without her really resisting, because at the time, hurting Nash had seemed fair, almost necessary, a way of reclaiming a little power over a life that always seemed to slip through her fingers. She hadn’t measured, not really, how far it could go. How close ten innocent girls had come to paying the price for her personal grudge.

She tightened her arms a little more around herself. The artificial wind that circulated through the upper levels of the Underground was never truly cold, but she was cold anyway, the kind of cold that comes from inside and that no jacket can really stop.

She remembered Rei, earlier, barely greeting her with a distant nod. The way Aiko had outright looked away when they crossed paths in the hallway. She didn’t hold it against them. She didn’t even have the right to hold it against them. She was the one who had dug that gap, one shovelful at a time, without really realizing she would eventually bury herself in it.

Time stretched. She no longer really knew how long she had been standing there, alone, looking at a garden that didn’t belong to her, in a house that would probably never truly be hers. Ten minutes. Twenty, maybe. The kind of silence that stops having any real measure once you stop counting it.

She thought, for a moment, about simply leaving. Going back to her own hotel room, wide, luxurious and terribly devoid of human warmth, rather than continuing to inflict this spectacle on herself from the margins. No one would probably notice her absence before the next morning, when Victoria would ask for her bag or her phone and remember, with mild annoyance, that she had disappeared without warning.

But she stayed. She didn’t really know why. Maybe that same masochistic impulse that had pushed her to watch Nash and the Blacklist girls on her phone before, that desire to stay close to something she knew she could no longer have, just to feel that she had been the biggest idiot of this story.

Inside, in the large living room, Nash hadn’t had a moment to breathe since he got out of the Porsche. Barely had he finished greeting one girl before another caught him by the sleeve, dragging him toward a new discovery, a new room to validate, a new attempt to bed him right there. Zayela had kept him on the couch for a good while, then Alicia and Nia had taken over, then Lina had wanted to show him her room, and Amara had eventually joined the small cluster that seemed to form permanently around him like satellites around a planet.

It was the smell of burning that finally interrupted everything.

"SHIT, THE OVEN!"

The shout, coming from the kitchen, caused a collective jolt and a general rush toward the source of the problem. Sarra, who had left her cake unattended a little too long, now found herself in front of an oven spitting greyish smoke and the smell of burnt sugar, gesturing frantically with a dish towel while Chio yelled contradictory instructions from the other end of the kitchen.

Shouts, laughter, jokes flew from every direction, with some exclamations in Japanese.

A general fit of laughter followed, and for the first time in hours, the general attention finally shifted away from Nash.

He took advantage of it. He excused himself with a vague gesture, leaving the girls to handle the remains of the culinary incident, and slipped quietly out through the living room’s glass door toward the rear terrace, having noticed Saya’s prolonged absence for a while already.

He found her exactly where he expected, leaning against the stone balustrade, her gaze lost in the garden, her arms still wrapped tightly around herself like a pathetic suit of armor.

"You planning on standing there all evening?"

Saya jumped slightly, turning around, a smile a little too quick, a little too forced, plastering itself across her face.

"I was just looking," she said, shrugging. "It’s... a lot, all of this."

Nash approached, leaning on the balustrade next to her. A silence settled between them, not completely uncomfortable, but charged with everything that still remained to be said.

"Do you want to live here?" he asked, without detour, as always.

Saya blinked, caught off guard by the direct question. She hesitated for a moment, searching for her words, before letting out a small joyless laugh.

"I wouldn’t mind living here in a cabin, outside, if that helps. It would already be generous, considering... everything."

She watched for his reaction, and her smile faltered slightly when she saw that he wasn’t smiling back, his face remaining serious, almost neutral.

"Ah," she said, her voice a little lower. "Okay. No cabin, then."

Nash scratched the back of his head, a little embarrassed despite himself.

"A luxury hotel room is still better than a cabin, right?"

Saya looked at him, uncertain she fully understood where he was going with this.

"And if it gets too late," he continued, more softly, "and you’re still here... there’s more than enough rooms inside."

A silence. Saya lowered her eyes, a fragile but sincere smile finally forming on her lips.

"I hate you," she murmured.

"Why’s that?"

"Because you make me hate myself a little more," she said, her voice trembling. "For having betrayed you, back then."

Nash stayed silent for a moment, looking at her properly, before answering in a calm voice. "You’ll learn your lessons sooner or later. First lesson..."

"Yes, yes, I know," she cut in, a small wet laugh escaping her. "Stop blaming yourself. I won’t forget what you said." She paused, her eyes a little shiny. "I’ve never forgotten everything you said, actually."

They stayed silent for a moment, the artificial wind gently stirring the half-withered leaves of the hedges below.

"The match against the Dust Dogs," Saya finally said, without looking at him, her hands clenched on the balustrade. "I won’t be playing."

Nash didn’t answer right away, simply letting her continue.

"I don’t want to go back there. On the court, as an opponent, as a threat, as anything that puts me against you." She inhaled, her voice a little shaky. "I can’t, literally can’t, physically, be in opposition to you. In any way."

"Okay," Nash said simply, without arguing.

She seemed relieved that he didn’t insist, relaxing slightly against the balustrade.

"And the Jade Gardens," she continued, changing the subject, almost to escape the emotion of the previous moment. "Where are we with that?"

Nash leaned against the stone in turn, a satisfied smile appearing on his lips. "Perfect. We made a huge leap with Phase A. Apex is going to get a hell of a surprise with its clientele soon. All that’s left is to launch Phase B."

Saya observed him, a mix of disbelief and reluctant admiration on her face. "You still see that far ahead," she said, shaking her head. "It’s almost scary."

"Get used to it," he answered with a half-smile.

"Don’t you think," she said, a teasing smile cutting through her fatigue, "that by letting me dig my own grave back then, you actually planned for it to give you the determination to become what you are now?"

Nash crossed his arms, an amused smile widening.

"Maybe. But I’m predicting something else now. If you keep going down this path, I might just decide to wipe your debts. Give you your freedom back."

Saya burst out laughing, a real laugh this time, light and sincere.

"In that case, I’d rather die. I’m going to keep living like a little princess in her tower, pissing off Victoria’s wallet, and stay in debt forever, thank you very much."

"Suit yourself," Nash said, laughing in turn. "I’ll see what it will be like."

They stayed side by side for a moment, the silence becoming softer again, less tense than at the beginning of their exchange. Saya eventually pulled away from the balustrade, walking a little along the terrace, looking at the abandoned gardens with a distracted gaze.

Then she stopped, without turning around right away.

"Nash."

"Yeah?"

She hesitated for a long time, her fingers tightening on the fabric of her sleeve.

"I’d like to tell you something. Everything that happened to me. Everything that led to..." she pressed a hand against her stomach. "If you don’t mind."

She finally turned around, her face a little uncertain, as if she herself didn’t fully understand why she wanted to share this with him, specifically him, after everything that had happened between them.

"I don’t really know why," she admitted, her voice low. "But I think I need you to know."

Nash looked at her for a long moment, something more serious crossing his usually calm and composed expression, before nodding slowly.

"I’m listening."

Meanwhile, in the visitation room of the Sector 16 pretrial detention center, Monique was sitting, or rather perched, on the edge of her chair, as if she couldn’t bring herself to put her full weight on it.

Her nails, once impeccably manicured, scratched relentlessly at the opposite forearm, an irritated redness already spreading across her pale skin. She didn’t even seem to notice, the gesture having become almost automatic, a nervous tic that betrayed everything she still refused to express out loud.

Her eyes kept drifting toward the door at the back of the room, the one through which the inmates were brought in, then back to her hands, then back to the door again, unable to settle anywhere for long.

Hector, for his part, sat perfectly straight, hands resting flat on the table, his face as impassive as a wax mask.

The side corridor door opened, and a guard entered with a file under his arm. He cast a quick glance between Hector and Monique before stopping short in front of the table.

"Mr. Perez," he said, his voice hesitant, almost cautious. "Before we proceed... I have to ask. Are you sure this is a good idea? This favor you requested. Letting him in the same room as you, without direct supervision, without a barrier."

Monique’s head snapped up, her nails freezing on her arm. Her gaze moved from the officer to Hector with an expression that hovered between incomprehension and a budding unease.

"What favor?" she asked, her voice a little too high. "What supervision? He’s going to be here, with us? In the same room?"

Hector didn’t even glance at her.

"We already discussed the terms," he said calmly. "I asked for a private visit. You agreed, so I expect you to honor that."

The officer held his gaze for a moment, then shrugged.

"Your call. We’ll be right outside. If things escalate, we come in. No discussion."

He turned on his heel and left the room without another word, the door closing behind him with a sharp metallic click.

Monique remained frozen for a moment, staring at the closed door, before turning toward Hector. Her nails resumed their nervous back-and-forth on her arm, faster now, almost frantic.

"Sir," she said, her voice trembling. "Sir, what does that mean, ’if things escalate’? Is he really going to be here, next to me, with nothing between us? What have you planned?"

Hector didn’t answer right away. He simply kept his eyes fixed on the door at the back.

"Sir," Monique repeated, louder this time, a note of panic finally breaking through the deference. "Answer me."

The back door opened before Hector had time to say anything.

Two guards brought Harlan directly into the room. A third remained near the door, hand resting on his service weapon out of pure procedure.

Harlan was barely recognizable.

His orange jumpsuit, too large, hung on a visibly emaciated body, shoulders hunched forward as if he were still trying to protect himself from a blow that was no longer coming. He walked with a stiff gait, legs slightly spread, every step hesitant and painful. One eye was half-closed by a yellowed hematoma that was healing poorly, a fresh bruise already layered over the old one on his jaw. His lips were split in several places, a dark crust dried in the corner of his mouth. Purple marks, too regular to be accidental, circled his wrists and ran up his forearms. One arm remained folded against his torso, almost instinctively.

His eyes stayed stubbornly lowered toward the floor, refusing any visual contact with anyone, a survival reflex driven so deep he no longer even seemed aware of it. When the guards let go of him, he had to catch himself on the edge of the table just to keep his balance, his trembling hand gripping the cold metal.

He held his hips, slightly tilted, rigid, avoiding to sit down too quickly, as if the simple act of putting his weight on a chair had become a painful calculation.

Monique froze.

The guards left him there without any particular consideration, then stepped back toward the door, casting one last look at Hector before exiting in turn and closing it behind them.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by Harlan’s whistling, irregular breathing. He still kept his eyes down, as if he hadn’t even realized yet who was in the same room as him.

Hector leaned forward slightly, hands still flat on the table, his voice rising at last.

"Harlan," he said. "Raise your head. The three of us have a lot to talk about."

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