It had been a squat, greasy man by the name of Mr. Vickers who'd threatened Cassette's door with disturbing "Rent's late, or you're out!" bangs while he rasped his voice. As he watched from the stairwell, the flinch cut much deeper than the threat itself. "He cracks our shell, Cassette," he thought; "a fissure I'll seal with his spark," brushing at the wires he'd stripped earlier, holding the copper ends glinting like veins. He'd end it, fuse her safety back together.
He tailgated Vickers into the basement lair-a dank warren with the flickering bulbs, all mildew and the air oily and rotten-all Mann waited on until the man bent over the fuse box, sweating profusely on his grubby shirt, grumbling to himself, and then moved-quietly, a shadow coiling. He circled Vickers' wrists with the live wires and yanked them tight, the insulation peeling back to bare the humming core. "What the—" Vickers was starting but Mann flipped the breaker, snapping the current, and blue arcs dancing, with a sizzling hiss as electricity bit flesh. Vickers convulsed, jerked like a puppet on frayed strings, skin blistering red and then black where the wires seared, eyes bulging as veins popped, blood vessels bursting in scarlet webs.
The nastiest part of burnt copper, singed hair, wet charred meat, and Mann watched as Vickers' tongue swelled, foam bubbling, pink at his lips, as screams mixed with crackling wheeze and suffocated by the buzz. Sparks jumped, catching his shirt on fire, flames licking up his chest even as he thrashed, wires biting deeper, dripping blood sizzling on the concrete. His hands clawed air for a moment, nails splitting, and then were still-he was slumping into a blackened husk, eyes melted to slits, a tomb of smoke and silence at the basement. Mann went down, inhaling the acrid tang, his fingers tracing the scorch marks. "He fractured our haven, Cassette. I sparked him out so we'd stay whole-my love's a current to bind us tight. My shell's only pulse."
He was back again with her that night, thrumming with buzz traveling through his veins, flesh faintly smoky. She had the living room to herself, barefoot, humming away as her skirts swayed about. He snagged her, spinning her to him, mouth crashing against hers-hard, wet, tasting wine and heat, tongue plunging deep as she gasped and lunged for his shirt. "You are my home, Cassette," he growled, and she moaned, pressing herself closer, sweet body against hard body. He lifted her skirt, hands gripping her thighs, sinking to his knees, kissing her through the fabric-slow, deliberate before pushing it aside, his lips and tongue tracing her, wet and fervent, flooding him like a storm.
She shivered, fingers twisting through his hair, dragging him up, and he dropped the last of his clothes, the faint char of Vickers' death upon him a secret she didn't smell. "Mann," she breathed, a plea in her voice, and he pinned her to the couch, her legs wrapping slick want around him as he pressed into her-raw, deep, the bodies a collision of sweat and unsated need. The cushions sank as he moved hard, possessive, his breath molten against her neck-"No one takes you from me," he panted, biting her pulse, her cries a wet, peaking song that drenched him. Her release came, a shudder soaking them both, pulling his own from him, and he groaned, collapsing upon her, their fluids mingling-dark and warm. He built her a shelf after, cooing, "This is our forever," his hands still faintly trembling, her trust a damp, pulsing chord he'd electrified the world to keep.