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The Spire began to flicker. The rain changed—no longer whispers, but a single, clear, cleansing downpour.

"Do it, Kechteny," she said. "Show them what premium really costs."

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Kechteny had once believed in the ritual. In the old days, bukkake in the physical realm had been about power exchange, about the overwhelming and the overwhelmed finding a strange, transient grace. But the premium version stripped away even that. It was pure market logic: saturate demand until supply collapses.

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Kechteny fell to his knees, not in pain, but in something he hadn't felt in years: grace.

But instead of breaking, Lilan began to laugh . The streams congealed, reversed, and shot back up the conduits. Kechteny staggered. The corporate handlers screamed as their own premium firewalls collapsed. The Spire began to flicker

He raised his hands. The city's data-rain answered. A million screens flickered. Every private message, every archived moan, every unpaid emotional debt converged. The first stream hit her—a man's first kiss. The second—a woman's final goodbye to a stillborn child. Kechteny felt each one pass through his own nerves; the ritual demanded the conductor feel the flood, too.