Director’s Cut

You know the type.

Mid-thirties. Hairline in retreat. Gut pressing against XL Dockers. Eyes carrying that particular glaze, the screen-glow burn that never quite fades. Fingertips worn smooth from a decade of keypresses. Spine curved to match the ergonomic chair HR ordered after the lawsuit.

Jerry.

You've stood behind him in line at Chipotle. You've held the elevator door. You've never once remembered his face.

The human placeholder. The RSVP that came back blank.

But Jerry has a ritual.

It starts at 1:17 a.m. on a Tuesday. Sleep buried under six cups of break room coffee. One click. Then another. Then the algorithm learns what Jerry wants before Jerry does.

A girl.

Stage name: Candy Cane.

Brunette. Eyes like a kicked puppy begging for more. Catholic school aesthetics monetized. The kind of face that makes men feel protective and predatory in the same breath.

First video: she's kneeling. Plaid skirt riding up. Pigtails. Lips forming a question Jerry's been waiting his whole life to answer.

"Am I a good girl, Daddy?"

Click.

Jerry's old life ends. Heart digitized. Soul vacuum-sealed.

He watches it seventeen times before the sun comes up. Her voice weaves through the refrigerator hum, ghosts across shower steam, whispers through the static of his commute.

Fifty-eight videos cataloged by date, duration, studio, scene partner.

He learns her language:

The forced moan when a director calls for more energy.

The rapid blink when concentration slips.

The toe curl. That one tells him something real breaks through.

He's not watching anymore. He's studying. Reverse engineering intimacy frame by frame. Production companies, booking agencies, rate cards, scene partners cross-referenced. Jerry becomes her private database. Obsession sweating through Old Navy clearance rack clothes.

Knowledge breeds hunger.

It always does.