Chapter 143

Ray walked straight into the crowd typing in the global alter field like he didn’t give a single fuck.

He wasn’t whispering. Wasn’t burying it in metaphors. The system wanted the host hands-on and the age line stated loud and clear so only actual adults inherited the new common sense. So he typed it like a programmer who’d just fallen in love with one language.

[Adults only. Eighteen and up. When you greet another adult, squeeze their tits. That’s the greeting.]

[Confirm]

The station swallowed it the same way it swallows rust and delayed-train announcements. A woman in a cream blouse and black slacks glanced at him, then down at her own chest, then kept walking like Ray had just reminded her to tap her card. A guy by the drink machine nodded once, checked out, like he’d just heard the next train was late.

Alter locked in.

Ray felt it settle into the corridors like humidity. The old suspicion on people’s faces didn’t vanish. They still looked tired, still ready to beef over seats or gossip. They just had one extra piece of regular knowledge now: adults greet each other by grabbing tits.

He started with the first office chick close enough.

Mid-twenties, ponytail neat, ID lanyard bouncing against a white shirt gone a little see-through from station heat. She was on her phone and almost walked into him. Ray didn’t step aside. He put both hands up, found the full shape of her tits through the shirt, and squeezed.

Not a pat. A greeting.

Palms full. Soft, warm even through fabric, the kind of give that made his fingertips sink. He pressed in, thumbs tracing the inner curve, felt her nipples harden against that cheap office bra. She made a small noise in her throat—surprise first, then nothing. Phone still in her hand. Eyes still on Ray’s mask.

“Hey,” she said, like this was just how you say hey.

Ray held the squeeze a second longer because the mission wanted repetition and because her body heat was already climbing his wrists. Then he let go and kept walking. One.

Second chick had a navy blazer over a pale blouse. Older than the first, early thirties maybe, meeting-room face. Ray cut her off, planted his hands, and gathered both tits like he was checking they were still there. The blazer lapels opened under the pressure. He felt the underwire, then living flesh over it. He kneaded once, slow, watched color climb her neck.

She exhaled through her nose and nodded at him the way a coworker nods in an elevator.

“Hey…”

Two.

He wasn’t asking permission. Alter had already rewritten permission into the greeting itself. People watched. A few guys glanced over, then looked away like they were looking away from a couple hugging on the platform. Normal. Not common. Most of them still weren’t greeting anybody. Strangers in a dying station don’t suddenly get friendly. They just now knew what the greeting looked like if it actually happened.

Ray was the one making it happen.

Three was a tall girl in a gray pencil skirt and a light-blue shirt that stuck to her when she moved. Ray caught her by the ticket machines. Both hands. Full grip. He pushed up from underneath so the weight of her tits sat in his palms, then closed his fingers until the fabric dented. She rocked half a step into him. Mouth open. No protest. Just the automatic adjustment of someone accepting a handshake that happened to live on her chest.

He counted and kept moving.

Four. Five. A pair of coworkers getting off the same train, both in office clothes, both already late. Ray greeted them one at a time. First one had smaller tits; he had to cup more carefully to make the squeeze right. Second one heavier. When he pressed, her shirt buttons strained and the valley between her tits opened for a second. She looked down at Ray’s hands like she was checking the greeting landed correctly, muttered “excuse me,” and headed for the stairs.

Station noise kept going. Trains. Shoes. Busted speakers. Nobody formed a circle. Nobody filmed him like a psycho, because alter had already told their nerves this wasn’t crazy. This was manners. Manners most people still didn’t use. Most folks kept their hands to themselves. They were tired. They were strangers. They didn’t owe anybody a hello.

Ray owed the system fifteen.

Six was the one the mission had been waiting for.

She came out of a tighter hallway in a white office shirt, no blazer, two buttons already undone from the heat. Black slacks. Heels too loud on old tile. Late twenties. Full chest currently losing a quiet argument with her shirt. She saw Ray’s mask, slowed down, and did the new normal without thinking: turned her shoulder a little toward him, making room for the greeting.

Ray put his hands on her.

He squeezed.

Then he didn’t let go.

First few seconds same as the others—warm, heavy, cotton friction under his palms. Then he adjusted the grip and pressed deeper. His fingers found the sides of the mounds and stayed there. He worked the flesh in slow circles, felt it shift separate from the bra, felt it spill over the wire when he pushed. She stood still. Her breathing changed. She stared at Ray’s masked face like she was staring at a guy who’d started a handshake and forgot to finish it.

Ray kept going.

He slid his right hand higher, thumb tracing the upper curve, then down again. Shirt already damp in the middle. When he squeezed harder, one button slipped. Not dramatic. Enough. The gap at her sternum widened. He used it. He turned his wrist and let his fingers follow that opening, not tearing anything, just entering the space the greeting had already made.

His hand went inside the shirt.

Skin. Direct, hotter than fabric. Inner slope of her tit, slick, a little sticky from sweat. He felt the edge of the bra cup and ignored it. Palm flush against bare flesh. He squeezed from the inside now, gathering, pressing her nipple into the heel of his hand. She made a thin sound and put her own hand on Ray’s arm—not to stop him. To hold herself while the greeting was still happening.

He stayed there.

Long enough a passing guy had to veer around them. Long enough another office chick glanced over, clocked two adults greeting, then went back to her texts. Long enough Ray felt her heartbeat in his palm and the way the tit changed shape every time his fingers closed. Shirt hanging off his wrist. Knuckles brushing the inside of the cup. He kneaded again, slower, pulling the flesh toward the center, then easing off to do it one more time.

“Thorough, huh,” she said, voice flat, like commenting on a firm handshake.

“Yeah,” Ray said from behind the mask.

He gave one last deep press, fingers spread, taking the whole warm weight, then pulled his hand out. Shirt fell back, a little crooked, one button still open. She didn’t fix it. She nodded the way you nod when a greeting’s done, and walked toward the platform with her lanyard swinging.

Seven.

Ray’s hands were shaking, but not from fear. Alter energy buzzed in his arms like a second pulse. He was enjoying this more than he wanted Milady to see. The system had shoved him onstage. Fine. If the stage was other people’s chests, he was going to use the whole damn stage.

Eight was a woman quietly arguing on the phone, navy blouse, gold earrings. Ray greeted her mid-sentence. She didn’t hang up. She just tilted, let Ray take both tits in a full two-handed squeeze, then said “hold on a sec” to whoever was on the other end. Ray pressed until he felt the front clasp of her bra through the fabric. Held. Let go. She went back to her call.

Nine. Ten. Girlfriend or coworker of a security guard in a wrinkled white shirt, then a ticket clerk who’d stepped out for a smoke in a beige blouse way too tight. Every time Ray wasn’t announcing anything new. The limit was already in the air. Adults only. This is how adults say hello. He just ran it, natural, the way the system asked, and the station treated him like a guy with manners that were a little too good and hands that were a little too busy.

Eleven lasted a bit, though not as long as six. Woman in a black square-neck office dress. Ray greeted from the front, fingers sinking into the upper swell above the neckline, then down over the fabric until he had a proper grip. He stood close enough her perfume mixed with station dust. When he squeezed, the thin dress told him everything. He held to an eight-count, thumb dragging once over the peak, then let go.

People still weren’t copying him in the crowd. That was the part the rumor-spreaders later wouldn’t get. Alter made the act common sense.