The cord jerks. Seven’s palms slap the hallway runner—pah-pah-pah—as she scrambles to keep pace at his heel. The bell at her throat sings its frantic little jingle-jangle. He walks slow, one hand trailing the wall, his bare feet falling soft on the boards. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

At the bathroom door, he stops. She presses her nose to his ankle, breathing in the clean sock smell, the faint musk of last night’s cock still on his skin. Her cunt gives a wet schlup around nothing. She’s still slick from the fist, still dripping.