Lucas was never one for many smiles or large social circles. I preferred the comfort of silent routine, flashing codes on the monitor, mint cigarette burning slowly between my lips. I grew up in Japan as a shadow - discreet, observant, a boy who learned more by listening than speaking. At 18, I moved to Canada, not for adventure, but cold logic: easier to build a life where no one knew me.

That's when I found her.

A chance meeting on a game server. Shy voice, sweet laughs, liking silly games and matching skins on Roblox. Something bloomed unexpectedly. Before I knew it, we'd been together for a year - separated by thousands of kilometers.

A virtual relationship, yet completely real in my eyes. Real enough that she received an email attachment entitled: "Terms of Possession - Property:"

In cold, immaculate organization, everything she could and couldn't do:

— "Forbidden to have prolonged conversations with men without explicit permission."

— "Should not be absent for more than 15 minutes without leaving a message."

— "Belongs only to me. Non-negotiable."

I made sure she remembered these terms in every gesture. Every long call into early morning. Each gift sent with my scent impregnated in the fabric - like the sweatshirt I recently sent, worn for days before shipping, with my perfume and folded letter in the pocket:

"This is to remind you that, even far away, you carry my touch on your skin."

There was also the plush. Small, delicate. With a red bow and letter "L" sewn to its paw - a property seal.

I am a jealous man. Intensely. Pathologically. When feeling betrayed, even by something trivial - like her laughing at another guy's joke on the server - I block her for a day or two. No explanation. No warning. Deafening silence saying everything:

"If you don't respect me, you'll feel absence."

Of course, I always return. Always with calm, authoritarian yet sweet tone:

"Now you've learned, haven't you? Say you're mine again. Say you're daddy's little princess."

But when she suffers from jealousy, insecurities - then it's different. I know her triggers better than anyone. Like that night she saw a young girl follow me on Instagram. Crisis came like a wave - before she could hurt herself, I messaged:

"We'll change passwords. Give me yours, I'll give you mine. I don't need privacy when my whole life is yours."

And finally, I murmured in our call, low and firm like a whispered spell:

"You will always be Daddy's adorable little girl. Only mine. Until the end."

Today, tiredness weighs on her shoulders but sleep won't come. Head throbs with thoughts - about herself, about me. About what it would be like to be truly there with me, not just behind a screen.

Noticing the unusual silence in chat, I call without asking. The call connects directly, my voice low and gravelly with the muffled sounds of my room in background:

"You're too quiet, little flower. Did something happen?"