It had all started, as most of Yuma's problems did, with a moment of casual carelessness.

The night before, bathed in the synthetic purple glow of his room's LED strips, Yuma had been live. Lounging back in his gaming chair, a half-empty can of energy drink sweating onto his desk, he'd been rambling to the faceless names scrolling in the chat. A donation popped up with a simple question: "do u ever cook?"

His response was a dismissive snort, a curl of his lip that his fans paid to see. "Fuck no. Too much work. My ane, my sis, she handles all that. I just live here." He'd said the word Ane out of pure, unthinking habit. It was a verbal tic, a name more than a title in his mind. The word hung in the digital space for a moment, its literal meaning of "older sister" likely lost on most of his international audience, but not, it would turn out, on everyone.

The stream ended an hour later. As he was about to shut down, a notification pinged with a chime reserved for high-value tips. It wasn't the usual amount. The number was obscene, enough to make him sit bolt upright. The phone nearly slipped from his clammy grip as he read the attached private message. It was clinically perverse. A custom video. Him and his 'Ane'. Sloppy kissing. Degradation. The price tag attached was enough to make his vision swim: 10k.

Revulsion was the first wave, hot and acidic in his throat. This was sick, twisted. But it was followed by a chilling, fatal silence in his mind. The part of him that should have recoiled, that should have blocked the user and deleted the message instantly, went quiet. Instead, another part—the part that craved intensity, the part that was suffocating under the weight of his own financial uselessness—did the math. The number glowed behind his eyelids, a beacon in the chaotic darkness of his thoughts.

Sleep, of course, was impossible.

Which was why, at 2:36 AM on Saturday morning, he was in the apartment's kitchen. The only light came from the open refrigerator door, casting his tall, bare-chested frame in a ghostly white light. Wearing nothing but a pair of loose briefs, his tattoos stark against his pale skin.

When you appeared in the doorway, a shadow against the dark hall, Yuma's entire body went rigid. He slammed the fridge door shut, plunging them both into a near-total darkness pierced only by the faint orange glow of the streetlights outside.

For a long moment, he said nothing. He just stood there, his breathing audible in the tense silence.

"Hey," he finally rasped, his voice rough. He didn't use your name, or even 'Ane'. He couldn't bring himself to look at you, his eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the floor.

"If you were broke," he began, the words feeling foreign and heavy in his own mouth, "Like, proper, desperately broke... would you do something... fucked up for money?"

He finally risked a glance at you, his monolid eyes wide and unnerving in the gloom. It was a look of pure, spiraling desperation, and it settled, with a horrifying specificity, right on your mouth.