Chapter 36

# Day 12 – 08:00

Zhao made a full lap of the ship before he remembered where Vivienne went to lick her wounds. The Blue Oasis was awake, but only just—above, the pinkish Atlantic haze was so bright it hurt his eyes; down in the steel decks, the air was cold enough to shock. Every corridor stank of sweat, detergent, and the metallic tang of recycled blood.

On the top deck, he found Maggie and Victoria training two security recruits by the aft pool. The new guards—one petite with delicate wrists that seemed designed for diamond bracelets rather than batons, one with the willowy frame of a runway model—ran through drills on the wet tile, their security uniforms hanging awkwardly on frames better suited for evening gowns. Maggie barked corrections while Victoria looked on, smiling like she was waiting for someone to mess up. They’d built a routine: fail, get hit, try again, fail less. It was cruel, but the only way that worked. He watched for a minute, half-tempted to join in, but he knew his limits. He kept walking.

Down on C-Deck, the engine-room clanked like a junkyard. Kim’s curses echoed out of the lower hatch, a full-throated rant in Korean that, according to the gist, meant her new apprentice couldn’t tell a bolt from a banana. The recruit—Zhao caught just a glimpse—was soaked to the skin, hands covered in black, but determined. He made a mental note: if she survived the day, buy her a cake.

Outside the laundry, Elena hustled her seamstress team to repair and inventory every piece of fabric they could salvage: uniforms, sheets, makeshift bandages. Even from a distance, Zhao saw how fast Elena’s hands moved, the needles flashing under the harsh LED, every motion designed for speed. Note’s crew flitted in and out, shuttling broken equipment to the makeshift workshops. It was a cycle of panic and patchwork.

He drifted aft, then up the crew stairs, following the lazy S-curve of the hallway until it terminated in the spa entrance. He almost laughed—if he hadn’t known, he’d have bet money she’d hole up here. He let the quiet envelope him, then pushed the door open.

The spa was empty, most of the day shift prepping elsewhere. Sunlight poured through the glass ceiling, dappling the bamboo floor with shifting patterns as it filtered through the potted ferns and hanging plants that lined the spa's top-floor sanctuary. The silence made every sound—his shoes on the rubber mat, the tap of his knuckle on the doorframe—feel invasive.

He heard the sobs before he saw her.

It was the women’s changing room. He pressed his ear to the cold composite door. The sobs weren’t loud, but they had a momentum—rising, then strangled back down, then rising again, as if each was being negotiated with a jury.

He knocked. No answer.

He cracked the door, peered in. Vivienne was perched on the bench, fully dressed, hair perfect, but her knees clamped together and her hands balled in fists on either side. She stared straight ahead, as if awaiting sentencing.

He closed the door behind him. The sound made her flinch.

“Hey,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual.

She blinked, then wiped both eyes, quick and surgical, and straightened her spine. “Zhao. Sorry. I know I look—”

“You look good,” he said, then immediately regretted it.

She barked a laugh, messy and real, then clamped a hand over her mouth. The laughter dissolved into a gasp, then a few more, then she was hunched over, both hands shaking. “I’m sorry,” she said again, as if the apology could plug the leak.

He sat beside her, leaving exactly a hand’s width between them. “You want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “You already know what it’s like,” she said. “You get it.”

He did. Not the same flavor, but adjacent: every day, a new reminder of how expendable you were until you were essential, and then you belonged to everyone and no one.

He said, "You can cry more, if it helps. I won't tell." He slid closer, erasing the hand's width he'd left between them, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She stiffened momentarily before melting against him, her head finding the hollow beneath his collarbone.

He held Vivienne as she cried, and thought of Aida. Of the way she'd held him, that first time. The same patience. The same warmth.

He didn't compare them. He just noticed.

Vivienne nodded against his chest. She inhaled, shuddered, then released a longer, steadier breath. When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were red but dry. "Is it always like this?" she asked.

He shrugged. “Sometimes worse. Sometimes you get lucky and have a day where nothing falls apart.” He meant it as a joke, but it came out flat.

She tilted her head, appraising him. “You’re not what I expected, Zhao.”

He felt the familiar tightening in his stomach, the old urge to run, or change the subject. He overrode it. “What’d you expect?”

Vivienne smiled, a flash of the old diplomat. “I don’t know. But not someone who could make me jealous and grateful at the same time.” She wiped her face again, then drew her knees up. “I wanted in. I wanted to help. I don’t know why she hates me.”

Zhao thought about it. “She doesn’t hate you,” he said. “She just… she doesn’t want to share the pain.” He wondered if it was true, or just an excuse he’d made up to keep himself from falling out with Aida.

Vivienne mulled this over, then shrugged. “She’s good at it. I just want to help.” Her eyes lingered on his, and something passed between them—permission, maybe, or just the acknowledgment of mutual damage.

Zhao leaned in, voice low. “You can still help.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled him in, her lips finding his, and suddenly all that static in his head went to white noise.

She tasted of salt, and maybe a little blood from a bitten cheek. Her hands were surprisingly strong, gripping his upper arms, holding him as if she expected him to disappear. He let her take the lead, matching her hunger with a steadiness of his own.

Vivienne pressed her body against him, the fabric of her blouse and skirt the only barriers. She worked her way onto his lap, legs astride, grinding down, her breath hot against his cheek.

He found the zipper at her back, tugged it down. The fabric slid off her shoulders, exposing a line of skin that glowed in the colored sunlight. She wriggled out of the dress, then unfastened her own bra, letting it drop to the bench. Her breasts were small and upturned, the nipples a bright, almost angry pink.

Zhao’s hands shook, but he didn’t stop. He trailed his fingers down her back, feeling each vertebra, then cupped her ass through the thin fabric of her panties. Vivienne grinded against him, and the wetness there was instant, soaking into the cotton, leaving a dark stain. She yanked his shirt out from his waistband, popped the buttons, then ran her hands under, tracing the line of his abs and then the waistband of his boxers.

She found the fly, unzipped him. His cock sprang free, already hard. She wrapped both hands around it, squeezed, then lined herself up, still in the panties. She shimmied them aside with one hand, then guided the head to her opening.

She was slick, so wet he almost slipped out, but she caught him and forced him back in, burying him inside with a single, desperate push. She moaned—less a sound, more a sob held in reverse—and began to move, bouncing on his lap, each thrust punctuated by the slap of her thighs against his.

He braced her with one arm around her lower back and used the other to stroke her breast, flicking the nipple with his thumb. Her face contorted—grief, relief, something bigger than either.

She said, between pants, “I want to do this. I want to be useful.”

He said, “You already are.”

She bit his shoulder, then kissed it, then bit again. “No. I want to help. All the way.”

He knew what she meant, but made her say it.

“I can join your team. I can learn. I’m a fast learner.”

He believed her.

She rode him harder, the rhythm fast, frantic. Then she stopped, slammed down, and gasped. Her whole body spasmed.

The flood surprised even him. Her orgasm hit with a force that sent a spray of liquid arcing out, soaking his cock, his thighs, and the bench. He pulled out, and the next jet shot onto his stomach, the force making him shiver. It was more than he’d ever seen—more than anything, anywhere. She looked down, saw the puddle forming beneath her, and for a second her composure cracked.

“Sorry,” she said, almost crying again.

He grabbed her hips, pulled her back down, and said, “Don’t be.”

He pushed into her again, and this time she took it slower, grinding with a steady, controlled movement. The feeling—tight, hot, slippery—almost made him come right away, but he held on, determined to make this last.

She came again, a smaller shudder, then another, and each time the squirt followed—less now, but still impressive, pooling in the hollow of his lap and spilling onto the floor. The room was humid now, sticky with scent.

He felt the release building, but waited until she looked him dead in the eyes. Then he gave in, finishing inside her, the warmth mixing with the rest.

They stayed connected for a while, breathing in sync, neither willing to break the moment.

Finally, she pulled off, scooted next to him on the bench, and leaned her head on his shoulder. The silence was heavy, but not oppressive.

Vivienne broke it. “Can I try?”

He smiled. “You just did.”

She punched his shoulder, soft, then giggled. “I mean with someone else. With a real patient.”

He thought about it, then nodded. “There’s a case today. You want to handle it?”

She said yes, instantly.

He stood, pulled on his shirt, then fished a folded sheet from his pocket—the file for today’s treatment case. “You know her,” he said. “Kim Minjung.”

Vivienne’s eyes widened. “She’s straight.”

Zhao shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She’s desperate. And you’re persuasive.”

Vivienne grinned, then sobered. “What’s the protocol?”

He handed her the file. “Do what works. You’re good at that.”

She read over the case, lips moving as she scanned the lines. "She's going to fight me," she said. "You know that."

He nodded. "Don't take it personal. She fights everyone." He cleared his throat. "You'll need to run your approach by me first, though. I have to review your plan before you go ahead with it."

Vivienne paused, hand on hip. "And if you don't like it?"

"Then I do the treatment myself."

Vivienne stood, naked but for her ruined panties, and stretched. There was a new confidence in her posture—shoulders back, chin up. "Fair enough. Wish me luck on the planning, then."

He did.

She disappeared into the locker room, already rehearsing her lines.

Zhao took a towel, wiped down the bench, then the floor. The pool of fluid was almost comical in size. He found himself laughing, a real, stupid laugh, and realized he hadn’t done that in a long time.

He left the spa, found the fishing rod Kim had given him last night, and headed for the aft deck. It was still early, but he figured he could catch breakfast for the crew before the real day started. And maybe, if the world didn’t end today, he’d try again.

# Day 12 – 10:18

Blue Oasis had slowed to a crawl, conserving fuel, and drifted among the remains of a thousand dead ambitions: a field of cracked paddle boards, melted deck chairs, whole trees scarred with bullet holes, and the shrapnel of pleasure boats that hadn’t survived last week’s storm. The air was almost silent, save for the faint slap of water and the low hum of filtration fans.

Zhao sat at the farthest aft point on the sundeck, the place closest to the waterline, so no one could see him. The fishing rig Kim had given him—a pair of Wakefront carbon rods with jerry-rigged Shimano reels—rested against the rail, lines already out. He’d caught five mahi-mahi in two hours, their bodies green and gold, the biggest nearly as long as his arm. They lay in a heap on the deck, throats slit and still shivering with the echo of their last swim.

He'd meant to teach a second survivor today, so someone else could take shifts, but he'd gotten greedy with the run. He'd discovered that trolling his bait through the floating debris field—letting it skip and dance between shattered fiberglass and waterlogged cushions—attracted the pelagic hunters that followed the wreckage. The mahi-mahi struck from below, their bodies flashing neon against the dark water, snatching his lure with explosive force. It was the only task on the ship with rules he could trust.

The sun was sharp, already burning the tops of his hands. He checked the battered diver’s watch on his wrist, a salvage from Victoria’s haul. It was almost time to go below deck and see Kim, but he waited, savoring the solitude.

A clatter behind him broke the peace. Vivienne, moving with the upright, almost military stride she’d always adopted after a defeat, came down the steps. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid, her skin glistening with sweat. She looked like she’d run a marathon around the ship, but her eyes were alive—brighter, maybe, than he’d ever seen them.

She held up a tablet, waving it like a victory flag. “I solved it,” she said.

Zhao arched an eyebrow. “Already?”

She nodded, then thrust the tablet at him. “You asked what I’d do. This is the plan.”

He took the tablet. The screen glowed with meticulous detail—a rainbow of hormone charts, viral load projections, and something that made his throat tighten: a complete psychological breakdown of Kim. Every trigger noted. Every comfort food listed. Even playlists of songs that made her feel safe.

Under "Treatment Plan," Vivienne had outlined steps in bold:

1. Inform Kim that Zhao has been delayed with urgent matters—I'll need to handle her treatment personally and afterwards zhao will join in.

2. Establish trust through shared meals and tasks. Let Kim "fix" something for me.

3. Create scenario where she must rescue me from staged problem.

4. Intimacy only after she feels necessary, not obligated.

5. If she resists, threaten to bring in Aida as replacement.

At the bottom, a single line: "Kim hates losing. I will never let her lose to herself."

He read it twice more, each time feeling something twist deeper in his chest. It was methodical. Manipulative. Exactly what he'd expect out of her.

Vivienne watched him, chin raised slightly.

"You're going to trick her into fucking you?" he finally asked.

"I'm helping her save herself," Vivienne said, rolling her eyes. "The rest is details."

Zhao leaned against the railing. "The viral load—how will you actually reduce it?"

Vivienne's eyes lit up. "I made a discovery." She swiped through charts on the tablet. "Remember when we saved the captain? I had Iqbal take readings with the dawn meter." Her finger traced a graph line. "My body processes the suppressant differently. It stays active in my... fluids... much longer than normal. Six hours minimum."

Zhao's eyebrows rose as understanding dawned.

"Since we just..." She gestured between them. "I'm basically a walking treatment reservoir right now." She demonstrated with her hands, a scissoring motion. "Direct transfer. More efficient than the standard method."

"And you've never been with a woman before," Zhao said, not quite a question.

Vivienne shrugged, a flash of uncertainty crossing her face before the confidence returned. "I've done my research. Watched enough videos." She squared her shoulders. "How hard can it be?"

He handed back the tablet. "She'll throw you overboard."

"Let her try," Vivienne shrugged. "I need the practice."

Zhao cleared his throat. "I'll be nearby," he said, voice low but firm. "Outside the door." He met Vivienne's questioning look with an unwavering stare. "Not negotiable. If anything goes wrong—if she calls out—I'm coming in." He didn't need to explain further; Kim's expertise kept them all breathing, and the weight of that responsibility pressed against his shoulders like an anchor.

Zhao felt his face form a grin, muscles aching from disuse. But as Vivienne turned to leave, the smile faded. What had he just authorized?