Recalibration

The last guests were trickling out.

The garden, once buzzing with laughter and lights, had gone quiet. Only a few low voices lingered. A half-empty wine glass. A dropped shawl. The clean-up would wait until morning.

Marisol stood near the steps, clutching her jacket tightly to her chest. She didn’t speak. She hadn’t since the slap.

She should leave. But then—

"Marisol."

Simone’s voice. Calm. Not angry. That somehow made it worse.

Simone stood framed in the doorway of the house. Her expression unreadable. One hand resting lightly on the doorframe, the other holding a half-finished glass of something deep red.

"Come with me."

Marisol hesitated—but followed.

This isn't the Simone I knew. The old Simone would’ve never let it get this far. Would never have let anyone—especially him—turn her into this.

Simone led her back through the quiet house, into the dimly lit office.

"Sit."

Marisol obeyed, lowering herself slowly.

"Look, Simone... I know how that looked, but you have to understand—"

"You humiliated me," Simone said evenly. "You framed my husband. Publicly. With my daughter beside you. Because you couldn’t stand that I chose him over you."

Simone moved to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses, and handed one to Marisol.

"Scared I poisoned it?"

Marisol scoffed, embarrassed—and drank.

The burn was smooth, deceptively sweet. Within moments, she felt her body ease. Too much.

Simone turned on a small record player. Soft jazz filled the air.

Marisol’s tone hardened. "He’s just like every white man—entitled, arrogant, dangerous."

Simone smiled. "Oh? And how many white men do you actually know, Marisol?"

Marisol flinched.

"I’ve studied them. Their systems. Their patterns."

"From behind footnotes," Simone replied. "You’ve never spoken to one, have you?"

Marisol bristled. "They’re barbarians. This country—our institutions—were built on chains. They take. That’s all they do."

Simone moved closer. "You think Calvessia belongs to you? Women like you?"

Marisol rose in volume. "Calvessia was built by minds like mine—not mobs, not weak men, and certainly not him."

Simone cut her off with a cold laugh. "Please. You’re from Veldena Heights. Your parents are doctors. Your entire life was handed to you by the same system you claim to fight."

"You were never ‘just a girl from Esmara.’ You were born into quotas and board seats. And you clung to them."

Marisol tried to object. Simone raised a hand.

"You look down on everyone who dosn´t look like you or shares your values. That’s why he terrifies you. Because he sees the truth—and doesn’t care."

She stepped forward.

Marisol snapped. "You let him do this to you? That white parasite? He doesn’t even belong in the same room as you, Simone. You—brilliant, beautiful, too fucking good for this entire house—are letting a low-rent colonialist fantasist live here like he belongs here. He should be down on his knees just to breathe the air you walk through. And yet here you are, worshipping him. It’s pathetic."

Simone’s expression turned to ice. Then—crack. She slapped Marisol across the face.

Marisol's eyes went wide. Before she could even react—crack. A second slap, harder, sharper, rang through the room.

She gasped, stunned—crack. A third landed with ruthless finality.

Simone loomed over her, breathing steadily.

"I can’t listen to this anymore," she said flatly. "I believed it too—once. That fake moral high ground. That fragile dignity we clung to because we were afraid—afraid they'd take back what we’d been given, what we took."

She circled Marisol slowly. "But it’s women like you who let everything fall. Because we never got enough. Because deep down, you knew the minute we slipped, they’d rise again. So we hold them down and their ****."

She sat on the desk.

"He made me see what I was too afraid to admit: that white men ruled this world not because they asked, but because they took. And maybe they were right to. Maybe the world runs better when they’re in charge.“

Marisol tried to rise. Her legs failed. The drink—

"You're insane," she spat. Her voice was thin, but sharp. "Amara was right about you."

She pushed against the armrests, trying to stand again. Her knees buckled.

"No—no," she whispered, blinking. "This... this isn't real."

"What did you give me?"

"Just a little nudge," Simone said, giggling.

She leaned in close.

"You were supposed to help—just nudge the hiring board, smooth a few paths, give him a fair chance. That’s all. Just a little professional courtesy."

Simone’s voice dropped lower, colder.

"But you couldn’t help yourself. You mocked him. You humiliated my god."

Marisol swallowed hard. "So... the plan changed?"

Simone smiled without warmth. "Drastically."

She tapped Marisol’s temple. "We’ll keep the body. Let’s see how long that clever little mind lasts."

Then she giggled—high, breathy, and utterly delighted.

"Uhhhhh, I’m excited," Simone whispered, her eyes shining. "I suggested it, you know? That we take your precious, overpraised intellect—and strip it from you. Isn’t that poetic?"

She leaned in. "He’s going to be the Dean of a new Uneversity that shapes this country in a new future. Doesn’t he deserve a proper housewife? Check. A sweet little family? We’re getting there. A successor? I’ve got a Future white goddess in mind."

She tilted her head mockingly.

"But you know what’s missing, Marisol?"

Marisol’s eyes welled up.

Simone whispered: "A dumb little office bimbo who lives to be a cock-sleeve for a real man. Someone pathetic. Obedient. Disposable. And who better for that than a sweet little Zina-Girls like your Kind ?"

She grinned. "You’ll make perfect desk toys."

"Please... let me go," Marisol whispered. Her voice was barely more than breath—thin, shaking, and hollow. "I was just trying to protect you... I didn't mean for it to go this far."

Simone tilted her head, smile darkening. "Too late, my little bimbo. Now let’s begin. I’ve been waiting all night to hop on a big, fat white cock—and you’re keeping me from it."

She clapped once, sharply. "Chop chop, Deskpet—let’s wrap this little villain monologue."

From a drawer, she pulled a small object—a pendant, delicate and glinting. She held it in front of Marisol’s eyes.

"You know what that little drink did to you, right? Your muscles are stiff, your neck can barely hold your head. You’re suggestible now—pliable, soft. Exactly how he taught me to make you."

"Simone..." Marisol croaked.

"Shhhhhh," Simone whispered. "Don’t think. Just look."

She dangled the pendant before her eyes, letting it swing in slow, deliberate arcs.

"Master showed me how it works. Now I’ll show you."

Marisol’s gaze trembled. Her breath caught.

"Look at the light, sweetheart... Let it guide you.

Simone's voice dripped with indulgent cruelty, low and coaxing. The pendant swung gently, catching the light with each pass—a soft gleam, then shadow, then gleam again.

"Left and right... Just like that," she whispered. "Your thoughts are slowing, aren't they? That little motor in your head—so noisy, always spinning—it's going quiet now."

Marisol blinked, the motion sluggish. Her head began to nod with the rhythm, unconsciously tracking the arc.

"That’s right. You don’t need to fight it. Fighting is for people who still believe they’re in control."

Simone leaned in, her breath brushing Marisol’s cheek.

"You’re not. Not anymore."

The light shimmered again. Marisol’s jaw slackened. Her fingers twitched, then stilled.

"Every time it swings, you fall deeper. Every time it shines, your pride fades. Your words, your books, your righteous speeches—they’re all drifting away now."

A tear slid down Marisol’s cheek. Her eyes were wide, but vacant.

"Good girl," Simone breathed. "Let go. Let it all go."

The pendant slowed... then stopped. Marisol didn’t blink.

Her mouth parted slightly. Silent. Hollow.

Behind them, Garrett stepped through the door.

Simone didn’t turn. She smiled.

"She’s ready.""

At the door—movement. A shadow.

Garrett.

Marisol’s lips parted. Her eyes fluttered.

Then—darkness.