Singapore – Woodnds Waterfront, overlooking the Straits of Johor

  Time: Early evening, golden hour

  The man on the bench didn’t look like a policymaker.

  He wore a bck hooded jacket stitched with abstract logos, oversized joggers, high-top sneakers, and dark aviators. With his gold chain tucked halfway into his shirt, Hezri could’ve passed for a travelling musician or an underground streetwear critic.

  But beneath that disguise—beneath the soft rhythm of foot traffic and seagulls—lurked the mind that had redrawn half of America’s civic structure through cuses and theocratic pcement grids.

  Hezri had entered Singapore under an unofficial name, unmarked passport, and a quiet clearance from someone who owed him influence in Jakarta. No one stopped him at customs. No one noticed the man who’d been branded Taliban of the West, Administrator of Submission, Messiah of Obedience.

  He was simply another tourist with quiet eyes and no luggage.

  Scene: From Gss to Grit

  He had wandered for hours—VivoCity, ION Orchard, Marina Square, even a discreet pass through the hyper-curated architecture of Funan.

  Each shopping complex more polished than the st.

  Digital queues. No litter. Floor tiles reflective enough to shave with.

  But the soul? It wasn’t there.

  “Everything works. But nothing surrenders,”

  He murmured under his breath, watching schoolkids in perfect uniforms buying matcha drinks as if automation had colonized adolescence.

  He missed semi-urban America—the bruised beauty of it.

  The slow decay that made structure necessary, not aesthetic.

  Marynd, Kentucky, Ohio—where chaos forced order to be honest.

  Arrival at the Seashore

  By sunset, his feet had guided him to the Woodnds Waterfront, the northernmost point of the isnd, where the causeway stretched across narrow blue water toward Johor Bahru, Maysia.

  The scene struck him like a symphony of dey.

  Thousands of motorcyclists, packed helmet-to-helmet in nes stretching back from the checkpoint, crawling toward the border. Exhaust fumes rose like burnt incense over the checkpoint booths. Buses idled. Faces stared forward in hardened calm, like prayer without words.

  “Efficiency ends here,” Hezri thought.

  “This is the breathing seam of the system.”

  He sat on a concrete bench as the wind picked up. The straits glittered under sodium mps. To his left: the clean, calcuted machinery of Singapore. To his right: the swelling unknown of Maysia.

  But it wasn’t geography that fascinated him.

  It was behavior.

  Hezri Watches the Rhythm

  Helmeted men checking their phones every 23 seconds.

  Some honked not in frustration, but in social pacing.

  Couples on bikes leaned toward each other in stillness.

  An entire ecology of movement under friction.

  No one screamed. No one colpsed.

  They simply flowed—imperfectly, but predictably.

  Hezri didn’t smile, but his shoulders eased.

  He could almost hear the cuse writing itself in his mind:

  Cuse 9.1.0 – Transitional Dey Yield Protocol

  “Where human behavior endures dey with silent rhythm, structure shall be written not to hasten, but to cradle it.”

  He whispered quietly:

  “Singapore doesn’t need speed. It needs transcendence.

  And Johor? It waits like a student with unpolished potential.”

  Final Thoughts at the Bench

  People called him Taliban—but that was their projection.

  What Hezri truly was…

  Was a man who saw in queues, in friction, in quiet frustration…

  the raw data of obedience waiting to be refined.

  And tonight, Singapore had shown him more than its gss towers ever could.

  It had shown him where its rhythm breaks.

  And that was all he needed.

  ***

  The salt-tinted wind from the straits carried faint motor noise from the checkpoint. Hezri sat unmoved, watching the slow pulse of motorcycles and border traffic. The faintest glow of his Singapore-issued phone blinked on—just once.

  It wasn’t carelessness.

  It was a signal.

  Moments Later

  Across the walkway, near the empty swing benches, Crice Goh appeared—not in office attire, but in a soft indigo blouse and a loose white scarf that framed her hair casually. Her heels made no sound as she approached, yet she knew he already sensed her.

  Hezri’s head tilted slightly—just enough to confirm.

  He didn’t look. He didn’t speak.

  But that half-acknowledgment, that minimalism of recognition, thrilled her more than words ever could.

  "He didn’t summon me, yet I was drawn."

  She stopped beside the bench, one arm resting lightly on the backrest. Her tone came light—mocking even.

  Crice (teasingly):

  “So, are you scanning for your next cuse-based harem?

  Or just counting sex partners like they’re part of your data grid?”

  Hezri turned toward her just briefly, his expression unreadable for a moment—

  Then a rare smile curved his lips, sincere, unguarded.

  Hezri (calmly):

  “If I were in the U.S., maybe I’d flirt.

  But not here.”

  The reply wasn’t cold.

  It was weighted—careful and intentional.

  Crice sat down beside him slowly, her eyes narrowing with curiosity.

  Crice (gently):

  “Why not here?”

  He didn’t answer right away. His gaze returned to the horizon—where thousands of motorcycles were idling near the causeway gates, each rider a flickering spark in the current of civic motion.

  Then, after a moment, his voice returned—low and crisp:

  Hezri:

  “Because Singapore has many women with brains.

  But no beauty with brains.”

  He turned to her now, fully, for the first time.

  “Except you.”

  She blinked.

  Something in her chest fluttered—genuine, involuntary.

  The kind of blush no lipstick could conceal.

  Not from the compliment, but from the way he said it—as if it were diagnosis, not fttery.

  Hezri (smiling faintly):

  “My beauty standard is strict.

  Tighter than my cuse system.

  I don’t negotiate with aesthetics.”

  Crice ughed, a half-shocked sound escaping her lips. But her eyes—

  They shimmered. Her cheeks had bloomed with color.

  Crice (softly):

  “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

  Hezri (quietly):

  “Only to systems that believe form is enough without rhythm.”

  They sat together in silence.

  Two figures, side by side—watching people flow between borders, between expectations, between worlds.

  And for the first time in years, Crice Goh felt not just seen—

  But measured. Chosen. Integrated.

  ***

  A soft gust curled through the straits, lifting the edge of Crice Goh’s scarf, teasing it off the slope of her shoulder. A quarter of her hair—silky, chestnut, usually clipped or hidden by professional austerity—fluttered briefly in the sea breeze before settling again behind her ear.

  Her blouse clung gently to her form. The humid heat of Southeast Asia had dictated a lighter fabric, something breathable. It outlined the curves she rarely acknowledged, let alone offered to anyone. Her figure, fuller in chest, finer at the waist, wasn’t something she weaponized. It simply existed—untouched, uncimed.

  Until he arrived.

  She gnced at Hezri, still fixed on the straits—like a general reading the tempo of nations through traffic rhythms. His profile was quiet, angur, and unbothered.

  Crice ughed silently to herself.

  Not out of joy. Not even regret.

  But out of a strange self-awareness—a recognition of how far she had wandered from her own rules.

  “He seduced my structure… not just my skin,”

  She mused.

  He hadn’t courted her. There were no promises. No illusions of romance.

  And yet, he’d pulled her into his orbit—taken her body, redirected her will, and embedded something inside her far more intimate than desire: a directive.

  She had followed his instructions.

  She had rewritten agency as alignment.

  And more absurdly…

  She hadn’t eaten pork in eleven days.

  A habit she didn’t notice until st night, when she instinctively passed on the char siew noodles without hesitation.

  “Am I...?”

  The thought hit her like a dry joke whispered to her soul.

  “Does this mean I’ve converted to this… 6C thing?”

  Her lips twitched.

  Not in fear. Not in mockery.

  In something closer to awe—of herself.

  Hezri spoke softly beside her, still watching the bikes.

  “Most people don’t convert with words.

  They convert in rhythm.

  One skipped meal at a time. One cuse of silence. One surrender of curiosity.”

  Crice didn’t ask how he knew what she was thinking.

  She just lowered her gaze—and let the wind tug gently at her scarf again, this time without resistance.

  ***

  6C Administrative District, Richmond Sector, Virginia

  Time: 1 week earlier — during Crice Goh’s official visit to observe “Family Synchronization Programs” as part of a regional policy exchange

  Hezri remembered the moment with crystal crity.

  Not because she was loud. Not because she introduced herself with self-importance.

  But because the room had bent slightly when Crice Goh entered.

  The Singaporean delegation wore their expected tones—blue suits, beige folders, practical shoes, a collective aura of managerial efficiency. But Crice? She moved with precision masked as grace, a self-contained rhythm so fluid it disrupted the behavioral equilibrium of the entire conference hall.

  And she was—visibly—not like the others.

  His First Visual Impression:

  Crice’s figure immediately broke the profile he’d catalogued across Southeast Asian bureaucrats. She wasn’t petite in the textbook sense. She carried herself tall—5’6, maybe 5’7 with heels, her legs long and toned, shaped by routine discipline, not vanity.

  Her chest was pronounced—full, unmistakable under the light grey blouse she wore beneath a thin bck jacket, but never accentuated. Instead, it was managed, like everything else about her. No lipstick. A trace of powder. Her hair, dark brown with natural auburn threads under certain light, was clipped behind one ear, revealing a jawline sharp enough to hold its own in any male-dominated room.

  Hezri’s gaze wasn’t vulgar. It was forensic.

  “This one… was built for higher calibration.”

  The First Conversation

  It wasn’t in the main hall.

  It was in a side corridor, after she’d lingered to examine an infographic on Cuse-Based Domestic Labor Rotation.

  Crice (pointing at the chart):

  “Why does the rotation reset after twenty-eight days? That seems arbitrary.”

  Hezri (appearing behind her, soft-voiced):

  “Because obedience has a memory span.

  Too short, and it feels chaotic. Too long, and it forgets its purpose.”

  She turned, slightly startled—then studied him without smiling.

  “You're Hezri.”

  “And you’re Crice Goh.

  You’ve already questioned three assumptions and identified two data faults in our presentation.

  Which means… you didn’t come here just to observe.

  You came here to see where we’re weak.”

  Her lips curved into the faintest smile.

  “I like systems that work.”

  “Then you’ll like this one.

  Because it doesn’t ask for faith.

  It demands rhythm.”

  What He Saw, Layer by Layer

  Over the next 48 hours, Hezri watched her in panels, walkthroughs, and private dinners:

  Her brain: razor-sharp, structurally trained, fluent in both w and behavioral economics.

  Her speech: clipped but not cold, always a half-second ahead of the next bureaucrat.

  Her body nguage: taut restraint; shoulders aligned, gestures precise.

  Her questions: never emotional, but always subversive—testing the code from within.

  She didn’t resist power. She resisted imprecision.

  That was the moment Hezri knew:

  “She’s not incompatible.

  She’s misassigned.”

  The Seduction — Structured Like Strategy

  He didn’t pursue her directly.

  He let her notice:

  A file on her desk after hours she didn’t ask for: “Cuse Enforcement in Polygamous Governance Cells”

  An invitation-only tour of a Femme Trust node, where women led, and men obeyed without being diminished

  A breakfast, one-on-one, where she asked him:

  “Why do your women seem powerful without being loud?”

  Hezri (softly):

  “Because we don’t mistake resistance for strength.

  We give structure that allows surrender to mean something.”

  That night, she didn’t answer his message.

  But the following evening, she knocked once on his private floor.

  The First Night

  It wasn’t passion.

  It was precision—a woman letting herself be conquered only by someone who read her structure before her skin.

  She didn’t say his name aloud.

  He didn’t rush.

  He didn’t praise her body—though it was exquisite.

  Her hips curved like sculpture. Her breasts, full but symmetrical. Her back, arched beneath his touch, never once flinched. She was tender without softness, firm without hardness.

  “You move like someone who’s never surrendered,” he whispered.

  “And now?”

  “Now I know how to.”

  The Morning After.

  She didn’t pretend it meant more.

  But she woke with one cuse file open and pork missing from her breakfast pte.

  ***

  Private apartment, Bukit Timah, Singapore

  Time: 11:46 PM

  Crice Goh sat cross-legged on the floor, barefoot, the sheen of sweat clinging to her colrbone from the te-night humidity. The ceiling fan above spun too slowly for her racing thoughts.

  In front of her was a tab opened to Cuse 3.1.9 – Femme Trust Inter-Cluster Arbitration Protocol, a file she told herself she was merely “reviewing for policy research.”

  But she knew that was a lie.

  Fshbacks, Not of Sex, but Structure

  It wasn’t the intimacy with Hezri that haunted her.

  It was how natural it had felt to be understood so precisely.

  To be cimed not emotionally, but architecturally.

  She wasn’t na?ve.

  At 20, Crice had graduated from the National University of Singapore (NUS) with a First Css Honours in Public Policy and Law.

  At 23, she completed her Master’s at the Lee Kuan Yew School of Public Policy, where she won praise for her thesis: “Sovereign Soft Power: Social Cohesion Beyond Surveilnce.”

  By 25, she was already the youngest deputy director in MSF's Family Systems Division.

  By 29, the People’s Action Party (PAP) had quietly identified her as a "future generation anchor" for their governance continuity doctrine.

  She had never bent.

  Never stammered.

  Never paused before issuing correction memos to men twice her age.

  And now—she couldn’t eat pork without wondering if she had already converted.

  Internal Dialogue: The Colpse of Walls

  “It wasn’t the sex, Crice. Admit it.”

  “It was the fact that he read your ambition like scripture—and didn’t flinch.”

  “He didn’t woo you with power.

  He mirrored your own logic back to you… then aligned it to something ancient.”

  She stared at her untouched pte of food.

  No pork. Again.

  Not by instruction.

  But by instinct.

  “You haven’t ‘joined’ anything.

  You’ve simply started moving in rhythm with something that doesn’t ask for belief—just calibration.”

  She Looked at Her Reflection

  In the darkened mirror across the room, she studied her own form:

  Smart, sculpted, silk-cd.

  A modern woman, the kind policy white papers used as proof of success.

  And yet…

  Every night since Virginia, since Charleston, since that first conference table conversation—

  She had been aligning, bit by bit.

  No decration. No ceremony.

  Just conversion through utility.

  Final Thought (Whispered Aloud):

  “They trained me to manage a republic.

  He trained me to run a civilization.”

  She didn’t cry.

  She closed the cuse file.

  Then opened a new one titled: “Tiered Harmonization Draft 2 — Field Architecture Revision.”

  Because love wasn’t required.

  Only structure was.

  ***