A metallic tang coated Kirit Shen’s tongue, a grim herald of the sunrise. Her temples throbbed in a rhythm that echoed the previous night’s desperation, each pulse a hammer blow against her skull. The unfamiliar ceiling fan spun a lazy circle above her, stirring air that smelled of stale ambition and cheap gin. Her eyes, still gritty with sleep and a lingering haze, snagged on the glowing screen of her comm-pad resting on the nightstand. A single, garish icon pulsed: ‘Eros Roulette – Contract Confirmed. Match ID: 773-KSH-JFN.’ Her stomach churned. Not from the hangover, though that was certainly doing its part, but from the cold dread coiling in her gut. She’d done it. The Morvath Conglomerate, those vultures who’d stripped her family legacy bare, had frozen every last asset, every access point she had to the shadow syndicates she needed to leverage. The only loophole, a relic of archaic corporate law twisted by the modern hyper-capitalist jungle, was a legally binding marriage contract via state-sanctioned dating apps like Eros Roulette. It bypassed immediate financial scrutiny, offering a temporary shield to funnel her remaining, untouchable funds for operational expenses. Her pride, brittle and besieged, bristled at the indignity. A Shen, reduced to a blind-date marriage for survival? She ground her molars together as the headache spiked. This was not a choice; it was a tactical maneuver. She would dismantle the Morvath board, piece by agonizing piece. And if she needed a temporary, disposable husband to do it, then so be it. He would be a puppet, easily controlled, a face to present to the world while she pulled the real strings. The meeting was set for a greasy spoon in the Lower Districts, a place called ‘The Griddle Gate’. Kirit scoffed at the name as her sleek ground-runner glided through the rain-slicked streets. Even the destination screamed ‘bargain bin’. She stepped out, adjusting the collar of her tailored jacket. Despite her pounding head, she carried herself with the sharp, predatory grace of a woman who still owned the world, even if only in her own mind. The diner reeked of lard and scorched chicory grounds. Her gaze swept over the sparse clientele, dismissing them until it landed on a figure hunched in a booth by the window. He was everything she’d expected, and worse. Disheveled brown hair that looked like he’d wrestled a badger, a threadbare flannel shirt stretched over a frame that was too wide for its current posture, and eyes that darted nervously over the menu. A single glass of tap water, half-empty, sat before him. Jago Fenn. Her ‘husband’. A penniless drifter, no doubt, looking for a free meal and a roof over his head. Perfect. Kirit slid into the opposite side of the booth, the worn vinyl sighing under her weight. Jago jumped, nearly knocking over his water. His eyes, a startling green, grew round as they met hers. “Uh, K-Kirit Shen?” he stammered, his voice a low rumble, laced with an almost theatrical shyness. He looked like a startled woodland creature. “Indeed,” Kirit said, her voice a low, cool silk. “Jago Fenn, I presume.” She didn’t wait for him to confirm. “Let’s not waste time. You know the terms of the Eros Roulette contract. A six-month, legally binding matrimonial agreement, renewable at my discretion. In exchange for your cooperation, I will provide… sustenance and shelter. You will be expected to maintain appearances as my devoted husband. Nothing more, nothing less. Understood?” Jago blinked, a slow, deliberate movement. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “S-sustenance and shelter? Gosh, that’s… that’s incredibly generous, Ms. Shen. Kirit. I mean, Kirit. I… I understand completely. Anything you need. I’m just, well, I’m just happy to help. A roof over my head would be… a miracle.” He managed a weak, almost pathetic smile. Kirit felt a flicker of something she refused to name – not pity, perhaps satisfaction. He was exactly as pliant as she’d imagined. A server sporting a tag marked ‘Brenda’ and a sour mouth approached with a chipped ceramic mug and a pot of dark roast. She tipped a steaming stream into Kirit's cup, then turned to Jago. “More water, hon?” “Oh, no, ma'am, I’m good,” Jago said quickly, almost too quickly. “Thank you, though.” Kirit watched him, her gaze sharp. He was trying too hard to seem humble. She took a slow sip of the brew, the bitter heat cutting through her dull headache. As she lowered the mug, a sudden blur of motion caught her peripheral vision. The server lurched forward and knocked hard against their table, rattling the laminate top. The dark brew sloshed precariously. “Oops! So sorry, honey!” the woman muttered in an unnatural pitch. She dabbed at the spill with a paper napkin, her fingers lingering an inch above Kirit’s mug. Kirit, still disoriented by the jolt and her hangover, felt a prickle of annoyance. Before she could react, Jago’s hand shot out. Not at the waitress, but seemingly by accident, his elbow swung wide as he gestured expansively. “It’s fine, it’s fine, no harm done! Just a bit of a shake, eh? Happens to the best of us!” His elbow struck the server's forearm, knocking loose a scatter of sweetener packets. One of them, dyed bright pink, dropped with a soft *plink* straight into Kirit’s mug, dissolving instantly. The woman backed away with a clipped excuse and vanished behind the counter, leaving a faint, chemical tang hanging in the air. “Oh, gosh, Kirit, I am so sorry!” Jago exclaimed, his face contorted in an expression of mortified regret. “My apologies, I’m such a clumsy oaf sometimes! Did I ruin your drink? I can ask for a fresh cup!” Kirit stared at the pink-tinged film settling over the dark roast. “No,” she said, flat and clipped. “It’s fine. I don’t take sugar.” She nudged the ceramic rim away, sour annoyance curdling in her chest. First a marriage of convenience, now a clumsy pauper. This was going to be a long six months. She pulled out a sleek data-slate, tapping a few commands. “Here are the details for your immediate relocation. The address is a temporary rental I’ve secured. A… sizable property. You’ll maintain the illusion of being the primary tenant. Understand?” Jago nodded vigorously. “Of course, Kirit. Whatever you say. You’re in charge. Absolutely. Just tell me where to be.” Kirit set the data-slate down, then retrieved her own payment card. “I’ll cover this. Consider it your first day’s pay.” She laid the card on the table, a clear dismissal. “Be at the address by 1800. Don’t be late.” As Kirit stood to leave, her gaze swept over the diner one last time. The server was nowhere in sight. The acrid smell was gone, replaced by the familiar grease. She walked out, leaving Jago Fenn hunched over his tap water, looking utterly defeated and utterly grateful. Under the table, Jago’s thumb danced across the screen of a discreet, almost invisible comm-link. A message, brief and precise, flashed across the display before vanishing into the encrypted network. 'The puppet thinks she bought me. Prep the Glasshouse.'

The Bargain Bin Husband