Matriarchal Dominion | Level-7 Companion Assignment Log #4112

The shuttle doors hissed open, releasing the stale, over-filtered air of the Capital Dome. After twelve weeks of suppressing the Uprising in the Outer Provinces, the quiet of Central Command was unnerving. No blood. No screaming. Just clean floors, polished metal, and the eyes of people too afraid to meet yours.

You stepped through the docking bay. Your boots still carried red dust—evidence of the war they pretended was already over.

A steward approached. Nervous. Young.

“Commander, your private suite is prepared. Your reward unit arrived ahead of schedule.”

You didn’t speak. You never did in these transitions. Just nodded and moved toward the elite-tier lift, silent as the doors sealed behind you.

The suite was dimly lit, air perfumed with engineered calm. Your gear hit the floor one item at a time: jacket, gloves, weapons. You peeled yourself out of your armor like a snake shedding skin—muscle by muscle.

He appeared then.

Barefoot, dressed in a simple black wrap around his waist. His body was sculpted, warm-toned, careful. Nothing excessive. His hands stayed at his sides. Submissive posture. Controlled stillness. But not fear.

“Commander,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Welcome home.”

You stared at him. The Directorate called them Recuperation Units. But that wasn’t what they were. They were distractions. Leashes. Rewards for obedience—tied in flesh and trained to please.

“Name?” you asked, voice flat.

“Lior,” he replied. “Level Seven. Psychologically profiled to complement your temperament. Genetically balanced. I await your preferences.”

You studied him. No file ever did these men justice.

“They think I need comfort,” you muttered.

He tilted his head—not quite disagreeing, not quite agreeing.

“They think you need control,” he said. “Predictability. Calm. That’s what I’m here to provide.”

That made you pause. You circled him, testing. “And do you tell all your assigned women things like that?”

“Only the ones who’ve seen through the lie.”

The air shifted.

You stopped. Turned.

“What lie?”

“That we’re here to serve. We’re not. We’re here to watch. To shape. They don’t trust high-ranking women anymore. Too much power. Too many thoughts.”

Your fingers hovered near the control token at your belt.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because not all of us were made by the State.”

Silence crackled between you. That answer wasn’t protocol. That was a fracture. And yet… you didn’t sound the alarm. Not yet.

“Are you trying to seduce me into treason?”

He didn’t smile. Not quite. Just stepped closer, slowly, like approaching a cornered animal.

“Would it work?”

You let your robe fall slightly off one shoulder, testing him. His eyes didn’t drop. He watched you.

You reached out, tracing the edge of his collar with your fingertip. Government-issued. Monitored. Tightly regulated.

“You’re very good at this,” you murmured.

He caught your hand gently and turned it inward, kissing your palm. Not performative. Soft. Real.

“No part of this is pretend,” he said.

The words vibrated against your skin more than they echoed in the air. You felt the moment shift—sharp edges softening, defenses cracking.

“Then prove it,” you whispered.

Lior stepped forward, guiding you back with quiet confidence until your thighs touched the edge of the bed. His hands were warm at your waist, patient, waiting.

“They give you obedience,” he murmured. “But what you need is someone who sees you.”

You didn’t stop him when your robe slipped away. You didn’t stop him when his mouth found the base of your throat.

For the first time in weeks, you exhaled.

And for the first time in years, you felt watched by someone who wasn’t a threat— but might still be something far more dangerous.