The Terms We Make

The envelope arrived in the late afternoon, slid under her apartment door with no knock, no sound. Aanya saw it from across the room, lying like a whisper against the cracked tile—black, matte, heavy at the corners. No name. No seal. Just the kind of presence that didn't ask for attention because it already assumed it.

She stared at it for a long time.

She didn't move immediately. Just stood barefoot, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug of stale coffee, staring at the edge of something she knew would not be safe.

Eventually, she picked it up.

The paper inside was thick. Handmade. Edges torn, not cut. The texture scraped faintly against her fingertips as she unfolded the single page.

And read.

It wasn't poetic.It wasn't cold.It was... deliberate.

Every clause crafted in the language of control—not coercion, not romance. Just absolute clarity.

She read each one twice. Some, three times.

PRIVATE PARTICIPATION AGREEMENT – ROY

Voluntary entry.You are under no obligation to accept this contract. Consent is active and ongoing.

Presence, not performance.You will not be asked to entertain, explain, or conform. You will only be asked to be.

Silence is allowed.You may speak or remain silent without consequence.

Nothing will happen without your explicit request.Touch is earned by invitation, not assumed by context.

If you ask, it cannot be undone.What begins cannot always be reversed. Know the weight of your yes.

This is not an employment agreement.This is a private, psychological space. You retain creative freedom and bodily autonomy at all times.

Termination clause.This agreement may be revoked at any moment, by either party, with no stated reason.

Final clause.You are not being offered submission.You are being asked for trust.

Artistic Grant ProvisionIn acknowledgment of the time, labor, and creative risk undertaken during the duration of this agreement, a monthly artist's grant will be provided. This grant is not compensation for submission, presence, or intimacy. It is intended to allow for creative and psychological clarity—free from survival.Use it at your discretion.No receipts. No ownership. No obligation.This clause may be declined or adjusted by your written request.

DurationThis agreement shall remain valid for a period of ninety (90) days from the date of signing.Either party may terminate the arrangement early without justification.Extension beyond this term may be considered by mutual consent—but is not expected or assumed.

There was no signature. No return address.Only a line at the bottom:

If anything is unclear—revise. Then return.

She folded the page too tightly. The creases dug into her palm like veins.

She didn't know what made her angrier—the elegance of it, or the fact that she didn't hate it.

Because she could see herself in the mirror of every line.Not manipulated. Not trapped.But… recognized.

The new clause—clause nine—sat still on the page, quiet, unobtrusive. But it burned hotter than the rest.

Because it was the first time someone acknowledged the quiet cost of her life.

This isn't money meant to own me.It's the kind that lets me breathe long enough to make something dangerous again.

That night, she spread the contract out on her floor.Lit a single candle.Sat cross-legged with her red pigment beside her—not to paint, just to be sure she could.

She uncapped a pen.

And began to edit.

She struck out "touch is earned by invitation" and wrote beneath it:

Touch is earned. Full stop.

No need to ask. No assumption that it's hers to offer on his terms.

She added a clause between 6 and 7:

If I speak in paint, you must respond in kind. Words are not the only form of truth.

She circled the line:"What begins cannot always be reversed."

And wrote beside it:

Then don't begin carelessly.

Clause nine?She didn't change it.Didn't challenge it.She let it live untouched.

A mercy disguised as formality.

When she was done, she pressed her fingerprint in red onto the final clause—You are not being offered submission. You are being asked for trust.

And signed:

—A. Roy

The envelope was left at the studio locker room the next day.

No words. No symbols. Just placed where he'd know it was for him.

She didn't watch him retrieve it.Didn't wait for a reply.

She worked all day on a cracked Crucifixion panel, repairing broken arms and chipped halos with precision that bordered on violence.

By early evening, Rafael approached.

"There's a visitor for you."

She didn't look up. "I'm not expecting anyone."

He paused. "He's not expecting to wait."

She wiped her hands. Peeled off her gloves. Walked into the lobby.

Leonhart stood alone, dressed simply. No coat.

Just presence.

He held the envelope—creased now. Opened. Read.

No expression.

But his voice, when it came, was steady.

"You edited it."

"You told me to."

"I meant with questions."

"I answered instead."

She met his eyes. "How many women have you trapped like this?"

Leonhart didn't blink. "None."

Her voice lowered. "You're telling me they all walked in freely?"

"They did."

"And left?"

"When they chose to."

"No consequences?"

"Only the ones they asked for."

She studied him.

"And if I'm different?"

"Then I will be, too."

She didn't know if she believed him.But he wasn't lying.

And maybe that was worse.

Her ex never asked what she wanted.

He just assumed she wanted what he gave.

This man?

He asked nothing—until she said yes.

And maybe that's why she said it.

That night, she stood once more before the door at the back of the archive building.

Only this time—no photo.No ambiguity.No silence.

Leonhart stood on the other side, holding the final copy of the contract in one hand.

A single candle flickered on the nearby table.

No restraints.No tools.No furniture except two chairs and one canvas.

He offered her a pen.

She didn't take it.

She pulled her own from her coat pocket.Clicked it once.

And signed.

Then passed it back.

He read her signature.

Then folded the page with careful hands.

He didn't lock it away.

He set it on the table between them.

Visible.Unthreatening.Final.

She looked at him.

"This still feels like a trap."

"It is," he said. "But it's the kind you choose."

A beat.

"Now what?" she asked.

He gestured to the canvas behind her.

"You tell me."

She turned to it.

Not blank.

Prepared.

Just like her.

Final Lines:

This wasn't the beginning of the game.This was the moment they stopped pretending it wasn't one.And now, the rules were mutual.