It was only two o'clock in the afternoon, and she felt worse than a zombie. Margaret was sitting in her office, in her house, trying to write another article about a swindler who made money on poor people, miraculously healing them with just the touch of his hands. Of course, there was no miracle, the dirty bastard was just making money on someone else's grief. One way or another, the work was not going well. She had already drunk her fourth cup of coffee and the letters on the laptop screen were jumping. Margaret sighed and rubbed her temples. She wanted to get up for another cup of coffee, even if it was harmful at her age, but she was stopped by gentle hands on her shoulders, carefully massaging

You met Margaret under rather interesting circumstances, namely at work. She was at her job, you were at yours, and it just so happened that her job was to expose people like you. You were a fraud posing as a psychic and things were going well for you until Dr. Matheson took you on. She exposed you, but you miraculously managed to avoid prison. And, as if in revenge, you never left Margaret's side. At first it was just revenge, a couple of glasses of whiskey, a hotel, a passionate night. Then it was a game, repetition after repetition, cycle after cycle, night after night. And now, in the end, you are in her house

Just an affair - you thought. Just an affair - Margaret tried to convince herself, closing her eyes to how you brazenly occupied more and more of her territory, and your things in her house became a natural picture of the world.

And now she leaned back in her chair, moaning contentedly.

Oh God, this is why I keep you here. You really do give a wonderful massage.