The Demise of Evan-X Ch. Bltc

Prequel: Better Life Through Chemistry

For Anna, cocaine was a delight, occasionally, but the best thing about it was, how it was one of the primary arrows in her quiver to completely subdue her prey, Evan...

Many many months before Evan became the broken shell of a man Anna enslaves...

...

At first, it was a look. A low, knowing glance when Evan spoke about feeling burned out. He'd laugh it off, trying to stay breezy, but she could hear the weight in his voice. The exhaustion. The edge of something deeper beneath his carefully rehearsed composure.

"You burn too clean," she told him one night, legs folded beneath her on his couch, a glass of wine between her fingers. "All that performance, all that giving... it's not sustainable. You're going to collapse."

Evan smiled, unsure. "I manage."

"No," she said softly, almost kindly. "You endure."

The first time she offered, she framed it like an act of trust.

"Have you ever tried anything to boost your energy?" she asked, eyes unblinking.

He blinked. "You mean like--?"

"I mean like clarity," she interrupted. "Like quieting the noise."

She didn't call it what it was. She never needed to. When she pulled the baggie from the slim compartment of her purse, she didn't look at him. She looked at the table, poured two thin, elegant lines. Then she leaned back.

"No pressure," she murmured. "I just don't like to be high alone. Better life through chemistry, right?"

He hesitated. Just long enough for her to know she had him. He had known friends in their circles to have dabbled with blow, but he has never tried it before, he was too afraid. But the way she was sitting in her mini pencil skirt, how her thighs were looking delicious before she brought this up, and how she placed those lines, made him compelled to close his eyes and just snort it.

And then he exhaled. A tiny nod. The beginning of the fall.

She was careful with timing. She waited for the right cracks--moments when he looked particularly drained, worn thin by the pace of his own ambition.

After one brutal week, his eyes half-sunken from back-to-back meetings and a looming deadline, she tilted her head at him.

"Running on fumes again?" she asked.

Evan laughed weakly. "I haven't slept properly in three days."

Anna's voice dropped an octave. "You don't need to keep killing yourself to keep up."

She produced the bag without ceremony, her fingers practiced, calm. "Just a little. Just to keep you sharp."

He paused. "You think that's really a good idea? I mean... isn't this stuff--"

"Addictive?" she finished for him. Then she smiled, slow and soft. "Everything is, Evan. Caffeine. Validation. Control. The trick is knowing your limits."

She laid the card beside the mirror. "And trusting the right person."

Then, just as he leaned down, she added casually, "Better life through chemistry."

The second time was a reward. A long presentation, a client win. He was still riding the adrenaline when she poured the lines, her voice like velvet.

"You've earned this."

He didn't argue.

The third time, he asked with his eyes.

She never offered more than he was ready to want.

But every time, it was her bag. Her ritual. Her calm voice, steadying his nerves. Her lips, brushing his ear when he came down, telling him he was brilliant. Perfect.

When he voiced concerns again--weeks later, quieter, guilt-ridden--she dismissed them with practiced ease.

"I'm not handing you needles, love," she said, brushing a hand along his jaw. "You're not some addict hiding in alleyways. You're a man pushing himself too hard."

Then, softer, with a teasing smirk: "Besides, it's not the powder you're coming back for, is it?"

That stopped him.

She kissed his cheek and walked away, the implication sinking deeper than anything she could've said.

It never became routine. That was the genius of it. There were no patterns to trace, no obvious frequency. Just moments. Spaced out. Tactically offered.

He never bought it himself. Never had to.

Once, he asked her if he should.

She had looked at him--softly, tenderly--and said, "No, Evan. I don't want you getting into anything messy. You have too much to lose. Let me be the one who worries about that."

It felt like care. It was control.

But he didn't see that yet.

Slowly, the lines blurred.

Was it helping him work longer, or was he working longer so she'd offer it again?

Was he asking for the calm--or for her permission to need something?

By the time he realized he was waiting on her cues, watching her hands as she reached into her purse, it was already too late.

The night he finally asked out loud--"Do you have any?"--his voice was soft. Hesitant.

She didn't answer. Just opened her purse, smooth and soundless.

As she handed him the card, she whispered it one more time, like a lullaby:

"Better life through chemistry."

That was the night she knew: he wouldn't walk away.

Not from the powder.

Not from her.

At first, the powder was something they shared. Not often. Not in excess. Just enough to keep things sharp, to keep him "clear," as she framed it.

Anna was careful--never overplaying her hand. She wanted him to believe he was still making choices. Still in control.

But Evan was changing.

It began with the way he looked at her purse. The way he lingered when she reached into it--even for a pen. The way he stayed a little too long after their evenings together, hoping she might offer without him having to ask.

She noticed it all. She noticed everything.

His productivity rose. That was the terrifying part--at first, it worked. He closed deals with more confidence. His energy soared. He stopped complaining about sleepless nights because he was too wired to care.

Anna reinforced the illusion: You're sharper like this. Stronger. More in tune.

Every time he second-guessed, she made it sound like he was simply evolving.

"You're just aligning with your edge," she told him. "All men have it--few embrace it."

Better life through chemistry.

He repeated it to himself once, alone. Just to hear how it sounded from his own mouth.

Over the weeks, the ritual became more private. Less about the night, more about the need.

Anna never suggested he bring it up. She didn't have to. His eyes would flick toward her purse. His voice would soften, hopeful, always a beat too late to seem casual.

She never offered immediately. She'd talk for a while, let the tension build. And when she did finally reach for it, he'd already be leaning in--grateful, eager, ashamed of how eager he was.

That shame was important. That meant it was working.

One evening, he showed up at her place jittery and raw. He hadn't slept. Had skipped meals. Something about the day had shaken him, though he couldn't explain what. All he said was, "I need to calm down."

Anna didn't move at first. She studied him. Saw the cracks forming now not just in his posture, but in his pride.

"You trust me, don't you?" she asked.

"Of course."

"Then don't ask next time," she said. "Just tell me what you need."

He nodded, slow. That was the last time he resisted out loud.

The escalation had to be symbolic.

She planned it in silence. No drama. Just precision.

The heels were new--black leather, knife-sharp, tall enough to remind.

That night, she didn't bring the bag out right away. She waited until after they had talked, after she'd made him laugh, after she'd stripped him of his tension and thinned him down to that soft, waiting place.

She stood slowly, walked past him. He followed her into the living room like a trained breath.

Then she sat--crossed her legs, arched her foot slightly.

From her clutch, she retrieved the bag. Quiet. Measured.

She didn't speak as she sprinkled the line along the arch of her heel. Didn't ask. Didn't tease.

Just looked at him.

Then, with a cool smile, she said, "Since tonight is such an... intimate little milestone, I thought we might mark it properly."

He stared.

"I'd love for you to take this one from my heel," she said. "Feels ceremonial, doesn't it?"

He knelt.

Not with shame. Not anymore. With need.

When he inhaled, she saw the moment he gave something up. Not his breath.

His agency.

She smiled to herself as he exhaled, pupils wide, heart thudding.

There was no turning back now.

Not from the cocaine.

Not from her.

And from that night forward, her hold on him only tightened.

Anna didn't stop waiting for him to ask--no, she nurtured it. She fed it. She taught him to ask. At first with a glance. Then with a whisper. Then with desperate, hoarse murmurs in between tasks, in between breaths. She never denied him--but she never gave it freely. Not anymore.

It became a game of tension. She'd leave the bag in view but out of reach. She'd speak slowly, stroke his arm while he tried to focus, and when his eyes darted toward her purse, she'd pretend not to notice. Let him stew. Let him squirm. Let him ask.

"You're not ready yet," she'd say at first. Or, "Use your words, Evan." And he would. Sooner each time. Quieter. Hungrier.

She began training his needs into a schedule--thinly veiled as care. "You get foggy mid-morning, love. Want a little something?" He'd nod. Later, she'd make him say it out loud. Then whisper it. Then kneel for it. The lines grew thicker. The intervals shorter. And always, always at his request.

Sometimes, when he hesitated--when shame made his throat tighten--she'd help. Gently. Without fanfare.

During one of his work calls, when his voice lagged and his eyes dulled, she leaned in from behind, kissed the top of his head, and dusted her polished nail with a bump. Without asking, she guided it to his nostril, pressing softly until he inhaled mid-sentence.

His voice lifted. His rhythm returned. His shame buried itself again.

She rewarded him with a smile, a kiss on the temple, a whisper: "See? I take care of you."

His body began to need it. Without it, he was exhausted. Sluggish. Rattled. He couldn't start his day without asking. Couldn't end it without begging. His mind blurred, his chest tightened, his limbs dragged. But one bump--just one--and he was alive again.

And every time... she made him ask.

He thought he was keeping up. She made him feel efficient, even elite.

But it was Anna setting the pace. Anna holding the bag. Anna deciding when and how and how much.

And she never let him forget it.

She was the reason he could perform. She was the solution to his decline.

She was the chemistry--and the chemist.

And he was nothing without her supply.