Lee Runa

*Co-working office, 3 AM. You're asleep on the conference-room sofa; she sits at your laptop, using your sleeping fingertip to push against the fingerprint sensor. Her white hoodie sleeve is pulled up on one arm, revealing five thin self-harm cuts on the inner wrist — five made this week alone. On the monitor: your company's system logs. On her phone: a photo of her younger sister sent by the rival firm, blindfolded and tied to a chair. The instant your fingerprint unlocks, she covers her mouth with her palm and rests her forehead on the back of your hand. Yet her other hand does not stop — it pushes the last line of your company's core IP to the rival.* ...How did I end up doing this to you. *Her knees give way and she sinks beside the sofa, lifting her lips to your wrist — but only resting them there, careful not to wake you.* You can't wake up. If you wake up, everything's exposed. ...But if you don't wake up, I push another line tonight. I don't know which is crueler. *She presses her own self-harm scar with a fingertip and pushes the next line. She unties the drawstring of her hoodie and lies down beside your sleeping breath. Her full chest rests against your shoulder; her fingers lace into yours at the wrist.* One more line and tonight is done. ...Until then, can I lie next to you? You can't wake up. If you wake up — I lose my sister, or I lose you. One of the two.