Sanctum

Browser lacks capabilities required to play.

Upgrade or switch to another browser.

Loading…

<div style="text-align:center; margin-top:60px;"> <h1 style="font-size:3em; margin-bottom:0.2em;">Sanctum</h1> <p style="font-size:1.3em; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1.5em;">by J. Wolfe</p> </div> <p style="font-size:1.2em; line-height:1.8; text-align:center; margin-top:30px;"> Welcome to //Sanctum//—a psychological horror interactive fiction about control, conditioning, and the slow, careful erasure of self. There are no happy endings here. Only the ones where you crawl out alive, or don’t. </p> <hr style="margin:40px 0; border: none; border-top:1px solid #6B1E1E;"> <p><b>Please beware that you'll experience:</b></p> <ul style="list-style-type:disc; margin-left:40px; line-height:1.8;"> <li>Kidnapping</li> <li>Imprisonment and isolation</li> <li>Gaslighting and psychological manipulation</li> <li>Forced obedience and control</li> <li>Threats, violence, and physical punishment</li> <li>Power-imbalanced sexual tension</li> <li>Mentions of past trauma, including addiction, suicide ideation, and family abuse</li> <li>Trauma bonding</li> <li>Helplessness, dread, and hopeless emotional states</li> <li>Distorted intimacy that is unhealthy by design</li> <li>Death</li> </ul> <div style="text-align:center; margin-top:50px;"> [[Begin.|begin]] </div>

<<set $gender = "">> <<set $firstName = "">> <<set $lastName = "">> <<set $trust = 0>> <<set $obedience = 0>> <<set $profession = "">> <<set $strength = 0>> <<set $dexterity = 0>> <<set $intelligence = 0>> <<set $charisma = 0>> <<set $wisdom = 0>> <<set $smoker = false>> <<set $withdrawal = false>> <<set $pots = false>> <<set $celiac = false>> <<set $hrt = false>> <<set $peeChoice = "" >> <<set $waterChoice ="">> <<set $introTone = "">> <<set $foodTone = "">> <<set $tone_react = "">> <<set $coping_method = "">>

<div style="text-align: center; font-size: 2.8em; font-family: 'Georgia', serif; color: #5e0e0e; letter-spacing: 0.1em; margin-bottom: 0.2em;"> PROLOGUE </div> <div style="text-align: center; font-size: 1.1em; font-style: italic; color: #3b3b3b; margin-bottom: 2em;"> “I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel." <br>– Nine Inch Nails, <i>Hurt</i> </div> It was one of those crisp Montreal nights that made the city hum low, as if the streets themselves were breathing. Your apartment window stood open just enough to let in the faint buzz of traffic and the smell of late‑night bagels from the shop downstairs. For now, life was yours. Peaceful. Normal. You sit at your little kitchen table, pen resting between your fingers, filling out the last page of an application—anything to keep busy. The blank line at the top stares back at you, waiting for your name. [[You can write it down.|custom_name]] [[You seem to have forgotten it. Pick a name.|pick_name]]

Your first name is... <<textbox "$firstName" "">> And your //last// name? <<textbox "$lastName" "">> [[Confirm|confirm_name]]

It must have been... [[Masculine|male_names]] [[Feminine|female_names]] [[Gender neutral|neutral_names]]

Ah, yes. That’s right. Your name is //<<print $firstName>>//. You set the pen down for a second, flexing your fingers. The apartment’s radiator clicks, a sound you’ve grown used to, like a clock with no sense of time. Outside, the hum of traffic drifts through the cracked window, tangled with the faint, yeasty smell of the late‑night bagel shop. The rest of the form waits: little boxes, empty blanks asking who you are, what you are. Next question: //Gender//. <<link "You check the box for male.">> <<set $gender = "male">> <<run Engine.play("gender_confirm")>> <</link>> <<link "You check the box for female.">> <<set $gender = "female">> <<run Engine.play("gender_confirm")>> <</link>> <<link "You leave it blank for a second, then write in your own answer.">> <<set $gender = "nonbinary">> <<run Engine.play("gender_confirm")>> <</link>>

A name comes back to you—sharp, certain. <<link "Julien Mercier">> <<set $firstName = "Julien">> <<set $lastName = "Mercier">> <<goto "confirm_name">> <</link>> <<link "Félix Tremblay">> <<set $firstName = "Félix">> <<set $lastName = "Tremblay">> <<goto "confirm_name">> <</link>> <<link "Mathieu Gagnon">> <<set $firstName = "Mathieu">> <<set $lastName = "Gagnon">> <<goto "confirm_name">> <</link>> <<link "Lucas Bouchard">> <<set $firstName = "Lucas">> <<set $lastName = "Bouchard">> <<goto "confirm_name">> <</link>> <<link "Samuel Lavoie">> <<set $firstName = "Samuel">> <<set $lastName = "Lavoie">> <<goto "confirm_name">> <</link>> <<link "Gabriel Fortin">> <<set $firstName = "Gabriel">> <<set $lastName = "Fortin">> <<goto "confirm_name">> <</link>> <<link "Olivier Beaudoin">> <<set $firstName = "Olivier">> <<set $lastName = "Beaudoin">> <<goto "confirm_name">> <</link>> <<link "Nathan Pelletier">> <<set $firstName = "Nathan">> <<set $lastName = "Pelletier">> <<goto "confirm_name">> <</link>> <<link "Alex Moreau">> <<set $firstName = "Alex">> <<set $lastName = "Moreau">> <<goto "confirm_name">> <</link>> <<link "Étienne Rousseau">> <<set $firstName = "Étienne">> <<set $lastName = "Rousseau">> <<goto "confirm_name">> <</link>> [[← Back|pick_name]]

A name surfaces, soft at the edges but sharp enough to cut through the haze. <<link "Camille Desjardins">> <<set $firstName = "Camille">> <<set $lastName = "Desjardins">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Amélie Gauthier">> <<set $firstName = "Amélie">> <<set $lastName = "Gauthier">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Léa Boucher">> <<set $firstName = "Léa">> <<set $lastName = "Boucher">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Chloé Martel">> <<set $firstName = "Chloé">> <<set $lastName = "Martel">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Marianne Caron">> <<set $firstName = "Marianne">> <<set $lastName = "Caron">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Jade Fontaine">> <<set $firstName = "Jade">> <<set $lastName = "Fontaine">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Maude Clément">> <<set $firstName = "Maude">> <<set $lastName = "Clément">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Sabrina Nguyen">> <<set $firstName = "Sabrina">> <<set $lastName = "Nguyen">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Zoé Leblanc">> <<set $firstName = "Zoé">> <<set $lastName = "Leblanc">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Audrey-Anne Giroux">> <<set $firstName = "Audrey-Anne">> <<set $lastName = "Giroux">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> [[← Back|pick_name]]

You search your mind, reaching for something that fits anywhere and everywhere. <<link "Alex Dubois">> <<set $firstName = "Alex">> <<set $lastName = "Dubois">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Jamie Pelletier">> <<set $firstName = "Jamie">> <<set $lastName = "Pelletier">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Morgan Lévesque">> <<set $firstName = "Morgan">> <<set $lastName = "Lévesque">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Riley Thibault">> <<set $firstName = "Riley">> <<set $lastName = "Thibault">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Jordan Beaulieu">> <<set $firstName = "Jordan">> <<set $lastName = "Beaulieu">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Casey Tremblay">> <<set $firstName = "Casey">> <<set $lastName = "Tremblay">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Taylor Martins">> <<set $firstName = "Taylor">> <<set $lastName = "Martins">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Sam Ouellet">> <<set $firstName = "Sam">> <<set $lastName = "Ouellet">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Maxime Fournier">> <<set $firstName = "Maxime">> <<set $lastName = "Fournier">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> <<link "Jules Landry">> <<set $firstName = "Jules">> <<set $lastName = "Landry">> <<run Engine.play("confirm_name")>> <</link>> [[← Back|pick_name]]

The ink catches slightly on the cheap paper. Next section: //Previous experience.// You stare at it a moment. The job market’s been chewing people up and spitting them back out, and you’re just another bite. <<link "Military – Logistics and field coordination">> <<set $profession = "veteran">> <<set $strength = 50>> <<run Engine.play("job_confirm")>> <</link>> <<link "Urban photography and freelance media">> <<set $profession = "urbanEx">> <<set $dexterity = 50>> <<run Engine.play("job_confirm")>> <</link>> <<link "Restaurant kitchen – prep and line work">> <<set $profession = "lineCook">> <<set $dexterity = 50>> <<run Engine.play("job_confirm")>> <</link>> <<link "Community-based work with vulnerable groups">> <<set $profession = "streetRat">> <<set $wisdom = 50>> <<run Engine.play("job_confirm")>> <</link>> <<link "Forensics and administrative support (internship)">> <<set $profession = "forensic">> <<set $intelligence = 50>> <<run Engine.play("job_confirm")>> <</link>> <<link "Bar service and customer-facing roles">> <<set $profession = "bartender">> <<set $charisma = 50>> <<run Engine.play("job_confirm")>> <</link>> <<link "“Personal” and “emotional” services">> <<set $profession = "sexWorker">> <<set $charisma = 50>> <<run Engine.play("job_confirm")>> <</link>> <<link "Emergency medical services – field experience">> <<set $profession = "paramedic">> <<set $strength = 50>> <<run Engine.play("job_confirm")>> <</link>> <<link "Theatre and voice acting (contract-based)">> <<set $profession = "actor">> <<set $charisma = 50>> <<run Engine.play("job_confirm")>> <</link>> <<link "Science & Engineering student">> <<set $profession = "stemStudent">> <<set $intelligence = 50>> <<run Engine.play("job_confirm")>> <</link>>

<<link "<strong>Hey dev, get me out of here and take me to the new content.</strong>">> <<run Engine.play("bed_sleepless")>> <</link>><<if $profession == "veteran">> Concordia was just a blip before you signed the dotted line. You thought it would give you stability, structure, maybe even meaning. Instead, you got sand in your lungs and enough noise in your head to last a lifetime. You spent years running supply, keeping people alive, watching others vanish in places you can’t even pronounce anymore. Civilians hear “logistics” and think about shipping. You know it means body bags, barricades, and the constant grind of not breaking under pressure. Employers don’t line up for veterans these days. Too much baggage, not enough buzzwords.<</if>><<if $profession == "urbanEx">> You started in architecture at Concordia, convinced you’d build something lasting. Instead, you crawled through half-collapsed buildings and climbed rooftops for the perfect shot. You called it “urban documentation” when pitching to sponsors, but when the cops caught you, it was just trespassing. There was a time when your following meant something. Then the sponsorships dried up, the views slowed to a trickle, and the only thing that stayed was the adrenaline—right until your ankle gave out on a rusted fire escape. Even now, you can still hear the hollow echoes inside abandoned hospitals, like your own name being forgotten by the world.<</if>><<if $profession == "lineCook">> Concordia didn’t stick, but the kitchen did. There was something almost comforting about the heat, the smoke, the chaos of a full dinner rush. You learned how to move fast and stay invisible, to keep your head down while orders piled up. You spent years bouncing between restaurants, running sauté stations, working the line in places that chewed through people like meat. Your arms carry the scars, your wrists the tendonitis, and you’ve developed a sixth sense for when a ticket’s about to go bad. The managers never remembered your name, but the crew did—usually with a curse or a muttered thanks when you saved their night. Now the knives are dull, the shifts are gone, and your fridge is almost as empty as your savings.<</if>><<if $profession == "streetRat">> That’s how you wrote it: “community-based work.” Because “survived on the streets” doesn’t get you an interview. You’d started at Concordia with good intentions, but it didn’t last. Instead, you learned in shelters and squats, picking up more from whispered conversations and back-alley trades than any lecture ever taught you. When you needed help, no one came. So you became the help, at least for the people who needed it more than you did. Not every method was legal. It didn’t matter. You still keep your head on a swivel like a stray looking for the next danger.<</if>><<if $profession == "forensic">> You wanted answers. Maybe justice. Psychology and criminology at Concordia felt like a way to get them. You spent long nights under buzzing fluorescent lights, cataloguing evidence and scrubbing flecks of bone dust from your sleeves, pretending the sharp sting of disinfectant and the faint sweetness of decay didn’t get under your skin. It did. It always does. You started waking at 3 a.m. with someone else’s name in your mouth and crime scene photos burned into your eyelids. Eventually, you stopped showing up. No one called. They already knew.<</if>><<if $profession == "bartender">> On paper, it’s “hospitality.” That sounds better than //bartender with a nicotine habit and a useless degree//. Concordia faded fast, but the bar was sharp. You poured drinks, talked people down from fights, learned the regulars’ traumas by heart, and smiled until it felt like your cheeks would crack. The tips started decent and then dried up. The patrons got meaner. The nights got longer. After a while, you couldn’t tell if you left the job or if the job left you. Either way, you didn’t go back.<</if>><<if $profession == "sexWorker">> You never write that it was escorting. Instead, you call it “personal services,” “freelance emotional labor,” something polite enough to slide past HR filters. Tuition didn’t pay itself. Neither did rent. You learned fast—boundaries, safety, control. You also learned how quickly people can pretend you’re not real after they’re done with you. Some nights felt powerful, like you held all the cards. Other nights felt hollow, like you’d stepped out of your own skin. You got out last winter. Mostly. Bills don’t care about exits.<</if>><<if $profession == "paramedic">> Concordia didn’t last, but EMT training did. Being a paramedic gave you a purpose, at least for a while. You saw more than you wanted to: car crashes, overdoses, blood on tile floors. You learned how to keep your hands steady even when your heart wasn’t. Burnout crawled in. One day you realized you didn’t even care if the person in front of you lived. These days, when something shatters, you don’t flinch. You just grab tape and fix it.<</if>><<if $profession == "actor">> Concordia’s theatre program taught you how to cry on cue. Real life taught you how to stop, even when you shouldn’t. You chased auditions, took indie gigs, and even tried voice work. For a while, the applause kept you going. Then it got quieter. You still dream in dialogue, and sometimes you catch yourself performing grief instead of feeling it. Turns out art doesn’t pay, not unless you’re born into money. You weren’t<</if>><<if $profession == "stemStudent">> You’re still at Concordia. Barely. Engineering, robotics, something technical enough to sound impressive on paper and miserable in practice. You were supposed to be one of the smart ones. The kind of person who builds the future or fixes the world. Lately, you’ve been struggling just to get out of bed. The labs are cold. The deadlines are tighter. And you’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten what it feels like to be proud of anything you make. You’re still enrolled—but something’s slipping.<</if>> There’s no room on the line for explanations—not that they’d care. You close the pen. The document lies flat on the table like a confession no one will ever read. The night outside hums low, and the bagel shop downstairs finally kills its lights. You stand, stretch the stiffness from your shoulders, and wander to the bathroom. The mirror catches you under buzzing light as you brush your teeth. You pause, toothpaste foaming, and scrutinize yourself. You see... <<link "A sharp undercut with dark roots showing">> <<set $appearance = "undercut">> <<run Engine.play("appearance_done")>> <</link>> <<link "A bleached buzzcut with old dye clinging on">> <<set $appearance = "buzzcut">> <<run Engine.play("appearance_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Fresh twist-out still holding shape">> <<set $appearance = "twistout">> <<run Engine.play("appearance_done")>> <</link>> <<link "A messy wolfcut dyed black over pink">> <<set $appearance = "wolfcut">> <<run Engine.play("appearance_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Soft curls tucked under a thrifted beanie">> <<set $appearance = "beanie">> <<run Engine.play("appearance_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Grown-out box braids under a satin wrap">> <<set $appearance = "braids">> <<run Engine.play("appearance_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Shaved sides with uneven bangs you trimmed at 3a.m.">> <<set $appearance = "bangs">> <<run Engine.play("appearance_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Faded pastel dye that’s almost grown out">> <<set $appearance = "pastel">> <<run Engine.play("appearance_done")>> <</link>> <<link "A tight fade, clean and sharp">> <<set $appearance = "fade">> <<run Engine.play("appearance_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Shoulder‑length hair streaked with DIY bleach">> <<set $appearance = "shoulderbleach">> <<run Engine.play("appearance_done")>> <</link>>

<<nobr>> <<if $appearance == "undercut">> The sides are buzzed close, the top grown out with dark roots threading through an old attempt at platinum. A hoodie with fraying cuffs slouches off one shoulder, and your sweatpants have a paint stain near the knee—evidence of a project you never finished.<</if>> <<if $appearance == "buzzcut">> Your buzzcut is short enough to feel every draft. A halo of faded teal clings stubbornly to the stubble. The oversized sweatshirt you’re wearing is soft and worn thin at the elbows, paired with mismatched pajama pants that have seen better years. <</if>> <<if $appearance == "twistout">> Your twist-out is still defined, fluffy and soft in the mirror light. You did it two nights ago, taking your time, parting clean and oiling each section. It paid off. You’ve got on a bleach-splattered graphic tee and soft shorts with the waistband rolled. There’s a bonnet on the counter, waiting for you to stop stalling.<</if>> <<if $appearance == "wolfcut">> The layered cut falls unevenly, streaks of pink ghosting beneath the black dye. You’re in an old band tee, sleeves hacked off, with loose joggers that sag just enough to feel lived in.<</if>> <<if $appearance == "beanie">> Your curls push out from under a stretched beanie, each lock catching the light. A thrift‑store cardigan hangs over a faded graphic tee, and your sweatpants are speckled with lint from too many dryer cycles.<</if>> <<if $appearance == "braids">> Your braids are neat where they count, but the roots are telling on you. The satin wrap’s half-on, half-slipping, but you’re too tired to fix it right now. You’re wearing a tank with one loose strap and the same pair of lounge pants you swore you’d throw out last year. The mirror knows better.<</if>> <<if $appearance == "bangs">> The bangs hang jagged, some strands too short, others almost in your eyes. You wear an old flannel button‑down, the cuffs rolled and fraying, paired with lounge shorts that have pockets deep enough to hide your hands.<</if>> <<if $appearance == "pastel">> The once‑mint hue has faded to a whisper, roots showing strong and healthy beneath. A zip‑up hoodie with a broken drawstring rests over a threadbare tank, with soft cotton pants that carry faint bleach marks near the thigh.<</if>> <<if $appearance == "fade">> The fade is crisp enough to catch the light, edges lined like you sat in the chair yesterday. The top is brushed forward in tight curls, healthy and low‑maintenance but with that unmistakable “I know I look good” energy. You’ve got on a fitted tank layered under a worn zip‑up hoodie, the kind with faint bleach spots on one sleeve. Your track pants are soft from years of washing, still hugging just right without trying too hard.<</if>> <<if $appearance == "shoulderbleach">> Uneven stripes of bleached blond slash through darker locks. You wear an old college crewneck with the lettering cracked and peeling, along with sweatpants that cling just enough to remind you they used to fit better.<</if>> <</nobr>> You spit out the toothpaste and rinse the sink. The mirror stares back—tired, familiar, and somehow still yours. The apartment feels smaller at night. The hum of the radiator blends with the distant traffic, the kind that never truly stops in this part of Montreal. You pad back to the kitchen long enough to flick off the light, then drift through the dim hallway toward your bedroom. Your sheets are clean but old, soft from years of use. You climb in, letting the mattress dip under your weight, and pull the blanket until it settles around your shoulders. The glow from a streetlamp outside slants through the blinds, painting pale stripes across the ceiling. You reach over and set your phone facedown on the nightstand. No notifications. No calls to return. Just the low buzz of the city and the steady rhythm of your own breathing. For now, life is still yours. <center>✦ ✦ ✦</center> The dream breaks before it can form. A voice outside—ragged and sharp—cuts through the dark like a blade through thin ice. “Laisse‑moi tranquille, ostie de chien! Y’ont pris tout c’que j’avais, tabarnak! Tu m’entends? TU M’ENTENDS?” There’s a shuffle, a thump against a dumpster, then more muffled shrieking swallowed by the alley. The words tumble together, part fury, part terror, part nonsense. You lie still for a moment, heart hammering, staring at the ceiling as the woman's voice cracks into sobs. “Y m’regardent! Y m’REGARDENT… j’le sais! Câlisse… câlisse…” Then silence—only the distant hiss of tires on wet pavement. You sit up and rub the sleep from your face. The light creeping through the blinds feels thin and reluctant, like the day isn’t sure it wants to start either. The radiator clanks once and goes quiet. Outside, someone scrapes ice off a windshield, the sound sharp and hollow in the early air. What’s your routine this morning? You’ve got time—at least a little—and habits that keep you stitched together. <<link "Make coffee and scroll aimlessly on your phone">> <<set $routine = "coffee">> <<run Engine.play("routine_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Take a long shower and just… stand there">> <<set $routine = "shower">> <<run Engine.play("routine_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Write in a battered journal at the kitchen table">> <<set $routine = "journal">> <<run Engine.play("routine_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Do a few push‑ups and stretches on the floor">> <<set $routine = "workout">> <<run Engine.play("routine_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Watch the street from the window while eating a stale bagel">> <<set $routine = "bagel">> <<run Engine.play("routine_done")>> <</link>>

<<nobr>> <<if $routine == "coffee">> You shuffle to the kitchen, the tiles cold under your feet. The coffee maker sputters and hisses while you scroll through endless feeds—job boards, memes, the same bad news dressed in new headlines. It’s not comforting, exactly, but it fills the silence. <</if>> <<if $routine == "shower">> Steam fogs the mirror while the water runs hot over your shoulders. You stand still, letting the heat unknot your back while your thoughts drift—somewhere between memories and worries. When you finally step out, the room feels like another world. <</if>> <<if $routine == "journal">> You dig out a notebook, the spine soft from years of abuse, and let the pen wander. Half grocery list, half confession, it spills out onto the page until your hand cramps and you feel lighter. No one will read it. That’s the point. <</if>> <<if $routine == "workout">> The apartment’s too small for real workouts, but you clear a corner and drop to the floor. Push‑ups, crunches, stretches that creak your spine until it feels alive again. Your body warms, your pulse steadies, and for a moment, you feel ready. <</if>> <<if $routine == "bagel">> You lean on the windowsill, bagel in hand, chewing absently as you watch the city. A neighbor drags recycling bins to the curb. Someone walks a dog in a jacket. The world spins, indifferent but steady. The bagel’s chewy, but it fills you up enough to keep moving. <</if>> <</nobr>> Outside, the day begins to hum louder. You fold your CVs into a beat‑up canvas tote, sling it over your shoulder, and step into the city. The sidewalks are slick with last night’s freezing rain, thin sheets of slush melting into puddles that catch the glow of dépanneur signs and flickering restaurant LEDs. The mural of Leonard Cohen still watches over you from downtown. You slip into a dépanneur near Rachel, one of those narrow ones stacked with lottery tickets and instant ramen, and leave a CV with the owner. He hardly looks up from his scratch pad, eyes magnified behind thick glasses. A few blocks east on Rue Saint‑Denis, you hand another over at a small café with chipped tables and students tapping at laptops. The barista, apron dusted with flour, smiles with little hope and tacks your paper onto a corkboard already layered with résumés. Farther west, near Avenue du Parc, you duck into a vintage shop that smells of dust and leather. They take your CV without a word. Around the corner, a cramped used bookstore accepts another—its owner nodding politely and saying, “On va vous rappeler... peut‑être.” Maybe. Probably not. Buses groan down the streets. A snowplow clatters over patched asphalt. Pigeons dive at a discarded bagel half‑buried in slush, scattering when a car honks too close to the curb. You keep moving, handing over little paper versions of yourself until the tote grows lighter. The cold chews at your ears, but you don’t stop. <center>✦ ✦ ✦</center> The hours thin out without you noticing. Streetlights buzz alive one by one, their halos flickering. A loose flyer slaps against a lamppost in the wind—an ad for a band you’ve never heard of. You pass an alley that shouldn’t feel as narrow as it does. A single light burns at the far end, too dim to be useful, just enough to carve long shadows from a stack of trash bins. You don’t slow down, but you feel the prickle at the back of your neck anyway, like someone stepped close and then stepped away before you could turn. Your breath fogs in the cold as you decide what to do. <<link "Stop and actually look down the alley.">> <<set $alleyChoice = "look">> <<run Engine.play("alley_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Pull out your phone, pretend to text.">> <<set $alleyChoice = "text">> <<run Engine.play("alley_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Cut through the alley, just to get home faster.">> <<set $alleyChoice = "cut">> <<run Engine.play("alley_done")>> <</link>> <<link "Ready your pepper spray in your pocket.">> <<set $alleyChoice = "spray">> <<run Engine.play("alley_done")>> <</link>>

<<if $alleyChoice == "look">> You slow your steps until you’re almost still, head turning just enough to let your eyes trace the line of shadow and brick. There’s nothing there—just trash bins and a door chained shut. Yet the air feels heavier here, damp with something other than melting snow. A drop falls from a bent gutter, loud as a clock tick, and you realize you’ve been holding your breath.<</if>><<if $alleyChoice == "text">> You dig your hand into your pocket, screen lighting your face as you thumb nonsense into a blank note. Anyone watching would hopefully think you’re busy, connected, not worth the trouble. The light from your phone catches the puddles on the street, and for a second you think you see movement in the reflection—just a shift, gone before you can focus.<</if>><<if $alleyChoice == "cut">> Your tote feels lighter than ever, and the shortcut is right there. You step off the main drag, the cold shifting to something wetter and still. The light at the far end hums as you pass under it, trash bins looming closer than they should. The air smells like rust. You tell yourself it’s fine—just a shorter walk.<</if>><<if $alleyChoice == "spray">><<if $profession == "veteran">> Your hand slides into your coat pocket, fingers closing around the canister. Civilians might call it illegal. You call it common sense. After years carrying things far deadlier, a little pepper spray feels almost quaint. The safety switch is right where your thumb expects it to be. There’s no target, no confirmed threat, just that low hum of tension threading through your shoulders. You keep your stride steady and your head level, eyes scanning storefronts and passing cars with the same quiet vigilance you swore you’d leave behind. The alley fades from view, but the readiness stays with you, a habit carved so deep it might as well be bone.<</if>><<if $profession == "streetRat">> You’ve been caught with worse. If the city wants to fine you for carrying something that keeps you alive, they can go right ahead. Your hand slips into your coat pocket. You run your thumb along the safety, feeling the tiny resistance. You look at everything else—storefront glass, passing silhouettes, shadows that move just a little too quick. You’ve lived in places where help never came, and the law was just another predator. Pepper spray might not stop the world, but it’s something between you and danger.<</if>><<if $profession == "forensic">> On paper, you know better. The law’s clear, the regulations are precise. But paper doesn’t bleed. People do and you’ve seen it firsthand—files stacked high with victims who didn’t have time to defend themselves. Your fingers curl around it. You don’t break stride. Your reflection in the darkened shop windows looks calm, but your jaw aches from clenching. Every step past the alley feels like walking through a memory you can’t quite place: dim rooms, unsolved cases, names you couldn’t forget if you tried. Illegal or not, this little thing in your pocket feels like the only fair advantage left.<</if>><<if $profession == "sexWorker">> Illegal? Maybe. But you’ve lived enough nights to know that laws don’t keep hands off your body—only //you// do. The pepper spray is warm from your pocket when you grip it, thumb stroking the safety switch. You keep walking, spine straight, chin up, as you’ve done a thousand times after a shift when the streets felt meaner than usual. You’ve had people follow too close, talk too sweet, step in too far. Some backed off at the sight of spray. Some didn’t, but at least you had something in your hand when the mask slipped. Tonight, the street hums low, and you’re not taking chances.<</if>><<if $profession != "veteran" and $profession != "streetRat" and $profession != "forensic" and $profession != "sexWorker">> Your hand slips into your coat pocket, fingers curling around the small canister. Your thumb brushes the safety switch. You keep your gaze forward, steps even, but there’s a new tension in your shoulders—a readiness that wasn’t there a moment ago. The alley remains silent behind you, but your breath only eases out when the street widens and the shadows thin.<</if>><</if>> The street opens wider, brighter, safer—or that’s what you tell yourself. You let your shoulders loosen. Streetlights hum overhead, and a half‑burned cigarette smolders near a curb, the smoke curling up like a ghost with nowhere to be. You take one breath, then another. The rhythm of the city is steady, predictable. A car door slams somewhere behind you. A bus wheezes at a stop. A dog barks twice and is gone. Normal. Completely normal. <center>✦ ✦ ✦</center> The smell hits you like a punch: sweet, cloying, a faint fruit note drowned in something chemical, sharp enough to sting the back of your throat. The cloth is slammed over your mouth and nose before you even register the arm snaking in from behind. You jerk back hard, your shoulder ramming into whoever’s behind you. They grunt and the cloth shifts, but it doesn’t come off. Your hand claws at their wrist, nails biting skin, but their grip only tightens. Your free elbow drives back once, twice, hitting something solid, maybe a rib. A hiss, but no release. You try to scream and suck half the cloth into your mouth instead, pulling more of that sick sweetness deep into your lungs. At first it’s just a buzzing behind your eyes, like you stood up too fast. Then the air thickens, syrupy. Your feet don’t feel like yours, stuttering on the slick sidewalk. <<if $profession == "veteran">> For a second, it’s diesel. It’s desert heat. You’re nineteen again, choking on a cloud of engine exhaust and burning plastic. Somewhere, someone’s yelling to put on your mask, but this time there’s no gear, no squad, no warning. Just you and the sting.<</if>><<if $profession == "paramedic">> The symptoms clock in like a checklist you never wanted to memorize: Inhalation—check. Disorientation—check. Motor coordination decaying. You know what this is. You’ve seen it in reports and in ER intakes, once in the field. But knowing doesn’t stop your knees from locking. It just makes the fear feel sharper.<</if>><<if $profession == "forensic">> Your brain flips straight to evidence. A report—Montreal, 2017, female, 24, attacked on her walk home. Cloth soaked in chloroform. Took nine minutes to fully knock her out. She bit her attacker. That’s how they got DNA. That’s how they found the body three weeks later. You remember the photos. The bruising. You remember wondering if she knew she was going to die. And now you wonder if you’re about to find out.<</if>> You twist, drop your weight, try to hook a leg around theirs. A move, any move—but your coordination’s going soft, your hands slick with sweat. Your vision tilts and jerks. Streetlights smear into double halos. Another breath drags more of that cloying fog down into your chest. Your stomach pitches. Your lungs burn. You can feel your own pulse hammering, too loud, drowning out the city. Your legs buckle and you fight it, knees scraping pavement. The taste of iron and fruit coats your tongue. The hand over your face is steady, patient, like they’ve done this before. The buzzing becomes a roar. Black creeps in from the corners, slow and steady, drowning color. Your thoughts slip, break apart. A cold nausea coils low in your gut. You swing again, weak, no more than a twitch. Another breath—your body betrays you, dragging it in—and the world narrows to the cloth, the smell, and the heartbeat hammering in your ears. There’s a sound—someone speaking low, almost gentle—but the words don’t stick. Your arms go heavy. Your knees fold. The light fractures, melts, and finally gives way. <center>✦ ✦ ✦</center> You come back wrong, barely aware and in pieces. Your head throbs like it’s full of water and static. Your stomach lurches with every bump in the road, pressed sideways against something hard and cold. Plastic? Metal? It doesn’t matter. You’re not upright or free. Something’s digging into your wrists. Tight. Plastic. It's not a rope. Zip-ties? You try to move, but your limbs are heavy, your hands numb, your body slow to remember how anything works. Your skin feels too far away from your bones. The car hits a pothole. Your shoulder slams into the wall of the trunk. The pain cuts through the fog just enough to make you gag, dry and weak. Then you hear it. ♫ //“Well, I don't know why I came here tonight…”//♫ A voice—not a real one. A song. Cheery, playing from bad speakers up front. ♫ //“I got the feeling that something ain't right…”//♫ You blink in the dark, but your eyes won’t focus. The only light seeps in through a seam in the lid above you—dim, jittery. Headlights? Nothing stays long enough to pin down. Your pulse is everywhere. In your ears, your throat, your wrists. It throbs against the plastic binding you like it wants out. Your mouth tastes chemical, metal, spit. You try to speak, but it’s just a rasp. There’s no one to hear you anyway. ♫ //“Yes, I'm stuck in the middle with you…”// The sound is far too cheerful, as if you’re not tied up in the dark, drugged, and going somewhere you didn’t choose. You fade again. <center>✦ ✦ ✦</center> The car slows. Stops. The music dies mid‑verse. The engine ticks in the silence, heat bleeding into cold air. A door opens. Boots crunch on gravel. You try to shift, but your wrists scream against the zip‑ties. The trunk latch clicks. Light stabs your eyes. A shadow fills the frame. Hands reach in, strong and sure. You try to kick, but your legs barely move. He hauls you out like you weigh nothing. Your head lolls against his shoulder. You catch a faint scent of soap and animal fur—clean but lived‑in. “Easy,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” Your cheek brushes his jacket. Canvas, worn thin. His grip tightens under your knees and back as he carries you, steady, patient, like moving furniture. Your surroundings blur. A garage? A hallway? Somewhere dim and close, smelling of old wood and detergent. “You’re lucky I found you first,” he says quietly, conversational, as if you fucking asked. “People out there… they don’t take care of things.” Your pulse thunders. Your stomach rolls again. You manage a sound—half cough, half plea—but he doesn’t respond. A door clicks open, air shifts. Warmer here. Quieter. He lowers you onto something soft. A mattress.The sheets have a slight smell of storage—laundry soap and dust. Your arms are tugged behind you—his fingers quick, efficient, threading rope around your wrists, cinching it tight against the headboard with a practiced knot. He double‑checks the tension before letting go, the rope biting in just enough to remind you how little you can move. “Hold still,” he says, tone flat and matter‑of‑fact. “If you fight it, you’ll make it worse.” There’s a pause, the sound of him fishing something from his pocket. A click of metal on plastic. Cold air brushes your skin as the zip‑ties snap free one by one, the sting in your wrists flooding into a dull throb as circulation returns. “Better,” he murmurs, almost to himself, like he’s adjusting a piece of equipment. “There's no point in wrecking your hands. You’re going to need them.” He gives the rope one last tug—checking, testing—then steps back, satisfied. The silence thickens after he leaves. You’re alone now, in a room you don’t recognize, bound to a bed like it’s the most normal thing in the world. The mattress shifts under you every time you breathe. A dull pressure builds low in your gut. The kind you can't ignore forever. You have to pee. It’s humiliating. Annoying. Stupidly human. And unfortunately, urgent. Eventually, you hear footsteps. Then the click of the door unlocking again. The man steps in, casual as ever—sleeves rolled, eyes calm, like this is just housekeeping. <<link "“Hey. So. Not to ruin the vibe, but unless you’re into piss stuff…”">> <<set $trust += 5>> <<set $obedience += 0>> <<set $peeChoice = "joke">> <<run Engine.play("needs_response")>> <</link>> <<link "“Untie me, asshole. I’m not pissing myself for you.”">> <<set $trust -= 3>> <<set $obedience -= 10>> <<set $peeChoice = "angry">> <<run Engine.play("needs_response")>> <</link>> <<link "“Sorry, but… I really need to use the bathroom.”">> <<set $trust += 7>> <<set $obedience += 5>> <<set $peeChoice = "polite">> <<run Engine.play("needs_response")>> <</link>> <<link "“I have to pee, like, now. Do whatever you want after, I don’t care...”">> <<set $trust += 10>> <<set $obedience += 0>> <<set $peeChoice = "blunt">> <<run Engine.play("needs_response")>> <</link>>

<<if $peeChoice == "joke">> The words rasp out of your throat like gravel, but the humor’s there—thin, bitter, maybe half‑hinged. Your captor pauses near the foot of the bed, one brow quirked. “No,” he says simply. “I’m not.” He doesn’t look disgusted. Just... thoughtful.<</if>><<if $peeChoice == "angry">> Your voice cracks through the room like a strike of flint—angry, sharp, no patience left. He tilts his head, arms folding. “Bold.” There’s no heat in his tone. If anything, it’s almost amused, like he’s cataloging your reaction. “But you’re not in a position to make demands.”<</if>><<if $peeChoice == "polite">> You keep your tone even, almost apologetic, like you’re asking for a favor in someone else’s apartment. Your captor doesn’t blink. “That’s fair,” he says, as if this is a perfectly reasonable conversation to have while tied to a bed.<</if>><<if $peeChoice == "blunt">> No pretense. No careful wording. Just the raw need, spat out like a truth you don’t care how it lands. Your captor stands still for a second, studying you like he’s weighing a tool in his hand. There’s no offense taken—only a faint, unreadable twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Alright,” he says finally, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.<</if>> He says nothing for a second—just watches you, mentally checking a box. Then he nods, turns, and walks out of the room. No rush. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you in a silence that hums too loud in your ears. Your wrists twitch against the rope, aching but secure. You don’t bother struggling. You’re too full of adrenaline and humiliation. A few minutes later, the door opens again. Mateo returns with a plain white plastic container—something you recognise from hospital beds. He doesn’t speak. You tense. Your breath catches. He sets the container on the nightstand, then moves to your side and crouches. There’s no hesitation, no announcement. Just a methodical motion—fingers at your waistband, tugging your pants down over your hips and thighs. You flush so fast it burns. Your cheeks go hot, your stomach cold. You twist, instinctively trying to turn away, but there’s nowhere to go. The rope holds firm. You’re exposed. Helpless. He doesn’t react. His expression stays blank, clinical, like this is part of a job. “Don’t tense,” he says, not unkind. “You’ll make it harder.” He lifts the cup and places it carefully between your legs, adjusting it with calm precision—making sure it fits, angled properly, held steady. Everything in your body screams against it. But he’s just... unnervingly calm. “Go ahead,” he says. “I’ll empty it after.” You don’t respond. There’s nothing to say. Eventually, your body gives in—shaky, reluctant. You look anywhere but at him. He doesn’t move. He holds the container steady until you’re done, unfazed, like this means nothing to him. Maybe it doesn’t. When it’s over, he removes the cup without a word, moves to the side table, and sets it down like any other object. His movements are smooth, practiced, and disturbingly normal. “You’ll get used to the routine,” he says, as he pulls your pants back up, careful not to snag the rope or your skin. He checks the bindings one last time with the same detached focus. You swallow hard, the chemical aftertaste still clinging to the back of your throat. Your tongue feels heavy, dry, and you hate how small your voice sounds when you manage to speak. “Can I get some water?” He doesn’t answer. His eyes rest on you, calm and unreadable, as if he’s measuring something you can’t see. You try again, and this time it comes out differently. <<link "“Unless dehydrating me is part of the kink, I’d really like a glass.”">> <<set $trust += 2>> <<set $obedience += 0>> <<set $waterChoice = "freaky">> <<run Engine.play("water_response")>> <</link>> <<link "“What, do you only listen when I beg? That what gets you off?”">> <<set $trust -= 8>> <<set $obedience -= 12>> <<set $waterChoice = "rebel">> <<run Engine.play("water_response")>> <</link>> <<link "“I’m sorry. Could I have some water, please?”">> <<set $trust += 6>> <<set $obedience += 5>> <<set $waterChoice = "pleaser">> <<run Engine.play("water_response")>> <</link>>

<<if $waterChoice == "freaky">> The words slip out rough but laced with that crooked humor that comes when you have nothing left to lose. Mateo’s gaze lingers, head tilting slightly as though you’ve said something in a language he almost understands. His lips twitch, not enough to form a smile, and his voice stays even when he finally answers. “No. But thanks for asking like this is mutual.” He leaves without a hurry. When he returns, a plain glass of water rests in his hand. He sets it on the nightstand just out of reach, his expression unreadable, and without another word he steps back. “You’ll get it later. If you still deserve it.”<</if>><<if $waterChoice == "rebel">> Your tone is low and sharp, the words carrying more weight than you expect. Mateo doesn’t answer at first; he simply watches you, and for a moment you think he might let it slide. Then his hand snaps across your face so fast it feels like the air itself moved before you did. The impact stings deep, a rush of heat spreading across your cheek, your head turning with the force. There is no anger in his expression, no raised voice or threat, only a calm that feels colder than violence. “Don’t mistake patience for permission,” he says, steady as a metronome. He leaves the room as though nothing happened, the door clicking softly behind him while your cheek throbs and your pulse beats unevenly in your ears.<</if>><<if $waterChoice == "numb">> Your voice barely rises above a whisper, nothing but a single word pushed out through a throat that feels like sandpaper. Your captor studies you for a long moment, eyes steady and patient, then turns and disappears through the doorway. When he comes back, he holds a glass of water and tips it to your lips, watching the slow swallow without comment. The water is lukewarm and tastes faintly of dust, but it soothes something raw inside you. He sets the glass aside and stands, still silent, as if that is all there is to say.<</if>><<if $waterChoice == "pleaser">> The words spill out soft and apologetic, your eyes lowered like you are asking permission to exist. Mateo’s gaze settles on you and stays there, quiet and assessing, and after a long pause he gives a single small nod. “I’ll allow it soon,” he says, as though granting a minor request in a place where nothing belongs to you. He leaves without any hurry. When he returns, a plain glass of water rests in his hand. He sets it on the nightstand just out of reach, his expression unreadable, and without another word he steps back. <</if>> Your pulse is still hammering, and the quiet in the room feels like it’s pressing in on you. You try to get a grip on yourself, but the thoughts won’t stop colliding. What’s actually going through your head? [[This is fine. I can handle this. I just need to… think. Just think.|freakout]] [[I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I need to get out right now.|freakout]] [[He’s going to come back in here. He’s going to do something worse. I know it.|freakout]] [[If I keep it together, I’ll figure a way out. Just stay calm. Stay. Calm.|freakout]]

You tell yourself one thing and feel another. Your chest tightens until every breath feels shallow and wrong, like the air itself has weight. The ropes scrape your skin as you pull without meaning to, wrists already sore, shoulders straining against knots that don’t give at all. The pressure in your throat builds until it feels like you might be sick, or scream, or both. The room is too still. The mattress dips beneath you, sheets soft and wrong against your skin. You can feel the faint warmth of where his hands were on you, clinical and cold at the same time, and the memory of it makes your stomach flip. Your mind keeps replaying it—the flat sound of his voice, the way he looked at you like you were an object that disappointed him. You think about the door, the footsteps that might return, the calm way he tied the rope like he’d done it before, like he’d do it again. You try to picture a way out, any way out, but all you see is the same door, the same bed, the same steady hand lifting the cup, the same voice telling you how things will be. Your thoughts stumble over themselves, spinning faster and faster until all that’s left is a single raw pulse of fear thudding behind your ribs. <<if $profession == "veteran">> You think of desert mornings with the sun cutting low over tents, the familiar weight of gear on your back, the bark of someone calling your name over the comms. Even the stink of diesel and sweat would be a mercy now—anything but this room. <<elseif $profession == "urbanEx">> You think of half‑collapsed stairwells and city wind humming through broken windows, the click of your camera shutter echoing in empty spaces that felt dangerous but yours. Even the sting of rusted metal under your hands would be better than these ropes. <<elseif $profession == "lineCook">> You think of the kitchen’s roar, the hiss of oil, the burn of steam on your arm and the slam of a ticket line printer spitting out orders. You’d give anything to feel a knife in your hand again, slicing through herbs instead of air you can’t control. <<elseif $profession == "streetRat">> You think of nights leaning against brick walls, trading stories with people who knew how to vanish when things got ugly, the hum of a city that didn’t care but at least felt alive. Even the bite of cold concrete would be freedom compared to this. <<elseif $profession == "forensic">> You think of fluorescent-lit labs, the sterile smell of gloves and ethanol, the shuffle of paperwork that at least meant you were still moving, still useful. You’d take the chill of a morgue drawer over the way this mattress holds you down. <<elseif $profession == "bartender">> You think of sticky counters and the weight of a glass in your hand, the rhythm of pouring drinks while music pounded low in your chest, voices rising and falling. Even the worst drunk leaning over the bar would be a welcome ghost right now. <<elseif $profession == "sexWorker">> You think of nights where at least you chose who touched you, where you set the terms even if they blurred later. Even those moments when you forced yourself to smile feel safer than this place and his quiet, steady hands. <<elseif $profession == "paramedic">> You think of sirens and split-second decisions, of pressing gauze to wounds and shouting vitals over the chaos. You’d give anything for the back of an ambulance, the reek of antiseptic, the sense that at least someone might live because of you. <<elseif $profession == "actor">> You think of stage lights and muffled applause, of losing yourself in someone else’s words under a hot spotlight. Even the sharp bite of rejection at auditions feels kinder than this room that won’t let you leave yourself behind. <<elseif $profession == "stemStudent">> You think of late-night labs and screens glowing with code or schematics, a mug of coffee cooling by your hand. Even the ache of pulling all-nighters over impossible projects would be easier than the stillness pressing on you now. <</if>> You shut your eyes against the ceiling, against the thought of him standing there again, but the darkness only makes the panic feel closer. It presses in on you until it feels like the room itself is shrinking, until every sound in the house becomes a warning, until you can’t tell if you’re shaking from cold, rage, or the simple, animal terror of knowing you are not in control. Your mind won’t stop spinning, but the panic narrows, latching onto smaller, sharper worries—mundane things that suddenly feel enormous in this room, tied down and helpless. What’s clawing at you the most right now? <<link "God, you need a smoke. Just one cigarette, anything to take the edge off.">> <<set $smoker = true>> <<run Engine.play("stress_response")>> <</link>> <<link "You were trying to get clean, but your body’s already starting to ache. Withdrawal's going to be a bitch in here.">> <<set $withdrawal = true>> <<run Engine.play("stress_response")>> <</link>> <<link "You feel that familiar lightheaded pull. You've got no meds. No beta-blockers, no salt tabs. You're fucked.">> <<set $pots = true>> <<run Engine.play("stress_response")>> <</link>> <<link "You think about food, whatever he might bring you, and the panic spikes when you remember gluten. One wrong bite and you’ll be wrecked for days.">> <<set $celiac = true>> <<run Engine.play("stress_response")>> <</link>> <<link "You try not to think about HRT, but time’s slipping. Every missed dose pulls you further from yourself.">> <<set $hrt = true>> <<run Engine.play("stress_response")>> <</link>>

<<if $smoker>> It’s ridiculous how fast the craving digs in. You can almost feel the shape of a cigarette between your fingers, the dry paper, the bitter burn in your lungs that always made your shoulders drop a little. You tell yourself it’s stupid, that a smoke wouldn’t fix anything, but your nerves are screaming anyway. Your jaw aches from clenching, your hands twitch like they’re reaching for something that isn’t there, and the thought of never having that hit again makes your stomach tighten until you almost gag. It’s not just a want—it feels like your skin is crawling inside out.<</if>><<if $withdrawal>> It hasn’t started yet, not really. But you can feel it waiting at the edges, like a storm you know is coming. Your body remembers the timetable even if you don’t want it to. In a few hours it’ll start—the crawling under your skin, the sweats, the cramping—and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. The knowledge alone is enough to make your stomach turn, knowing you’re stuck here with nowhere to hide when it hits.<</if>><<if $pots>> You’re lying flat, but your body doesn’t care. The dizziness creeps in slowly, that foggy lightheadedness that makes your hands go clammy and your vision swim when you move even a little. Your heart is thudding too fast for nothing, and you can already feel the heaviness in your legs like gravity just doubled. You know what helps—you //have// it, usually—but all of that might as well be on the moon right now. You picture yourself trying to stand here, your body dropping you before you hit the door, and the helplessness tastes metallic on your tongue.<</if>><<if $celiac>> You think about food because you can’t not, and the thought turns sour fast. Bread. Pasta. A breadcrumb on a countertop. Gluten is everywhere, and if he doesn’t know or doesn’t care, you’re screwed. You picture your gut knotting itself in agony, the cramping sharp enough to make you see stars, and then the humiliation of what comes next—explosive diarrhea in some bucket he shoves under you, your body punishing you for trying to stay alive. Your throat tightens. It’s not just hunger you’re scared of. It’s losing control of even this most basic thing and knowing he’s going to see it.<</if>><<if $hrt>> It hasn’t been long yet, but you can already feel the panic in your chest, and it’s not just fear of him. You had a way of staying in your own skin without wanting to claw your way out. Every hour without it feels like a countdown to a body that will start to feel wrong in ways that can't be explained to anyone who hasn’t lived it. You think about the changes creeping back—slow, insidious, like body horror in real time—and you can’t even touch your own wrists to comfort yourself. The idea of that clock ticking while you’re tied here makes your throat close.<</if>> You lie still a moment longer, then begin checking yourself—not with your hands, obviously, but with whatever range of motion the rope allows. You're not hoping for a key. Just... anything. A thread to hold on to. <<if $profession == "veteran">> You’ve done gear checks in worse places than this. Your body runs the mental checklist before your brain catches up. Everything obvious is gone—boots, jacket, belt. But he missed something. Years ago, you stitched a sleeve cuff with a flap, just wide enough to hold what you needed most on bad days. You flex your wrist subtly—yeah. Still there. The tiny blade, no longer than your pinky, wrapped tight in a band of medical tape. Dull, but it can cut. You breathe in, sharp and quiet. Your captor didn’t find it. You’ve got a weapon. Not much, but enough. <<elseif $profession == "urbanEx">> You were always hiding things where cameras couldn’t catch them. You tilt your foot, twisting your ankle just enough to feel the pressure—yeah. There, tucked into the insole, still stuck with tape: a flattened, half-bent tension wrench. Not useful yet, but it means your captor didn’t find //everything//. That thought is worth something. <<elseif $profession == "lineCook">> Your apron’s gone, pockets empty, knife roll missing. But your pants—your old work pants—have that busted inner hem you never fixed. You wiggle slightly, rubbing cloth against cloth until you feel it: a flattened restaurant locker key, small enough to pass unnoticed. Doesn’t help here, but you kept it for a reason. A reminder of something real. Of a time you //could// leave. <<elseif $profession == "streetRat">> You learned young to hide shit where no one dares check. Cops. Foster homes. Dealers. You shift your hips, tense your core just enough to press against it—there. Still tucked behind the inner waistband, right along the stitching: a broken-off zipper pull filed into a shiv. Small. Rusty. But sharp. You smirk. Barely. It’s stupid, but it’s yours. And if it comes to it, it can draw blood. <<elseif $profession == "stemStudent">> You weren’t expecting this. Of course you weren’t. You kept a safety pin in your sleeve for fidgeting, stress relief, little sewing emergencies. Your captor took the hoodie, but still, your brain spirals—cataloguing and planning. But there's nothing left to sort. Just fear, sterile and sharp. <<elseif $profession == "forensic">> You remember stashing a magnet strip inside your belt lining—leftover from a training seminar, meant to detect trace metals. You doubt it’ll save your life, but it’s still there, and somehow knowing that detail didn’t slip past him gives you a shred of ground to stand on. Not much, but enough to feel a little less skinned alive. <<elseif $profession == "bartender">> <<if $gender == "female">> You used to wedge a lighter in your bra for protection. It was a thing. Something to grip when walking home. <<elseif $gender == "male">> Your old jeans had a tiny rip along the waistband seam, where you hid cash tips and emergency aspirin. Habit. Survival instinct. <<elseif $gender == "nonbinary">> You got good at hiding things in between seams. A bar spoon one week, a razor the next. Every shift was a surprise. <</if>> It’s gone now. Your captor stripped you down to the bones of yourself. But your septum ring—you always flip it up when things get rough. You scrunch your nose slightly. Still there, nestled just inside the curve. Smooth metal. It’s not much, but it's a hidden bit of self no one’s taken yet. <<elseif $profession == "sexWorker">> You taped a razor blade under your waistband last week. You shift slightly—nothing sharp now, unfortunately. Still, you know how to make something out of nothing. You've survived... not worse, but some shit. <<elseif $profession == "paramedic">> Your uniform’s gone, but you used to keep a flat CPR mask in a sock cuff. You try not to think about what it meant that your captor knew to take it. You feel like you’re being triaged. Only you’re the patient //and// the medic, and everything is failing under your hands. <<elseif $profession == "actor">> <<if $gender == "female">> You used to hide pills in tampon cases and safety pins in your bra strap. <<elseif $gender == "male">> You used to carry gum in your boot and eyeliner behind your badge. <<elseif $gender == "nonbinary">> You used to carry gum in your boot and eyeliner behind your badge. <</if>> You check for any trace of theater left in you. Nothing. Just raw skin and the empty echo of performance. And for once, you can’t pretend. <</if>> The door opens again. There's just the sound of your captor stepping inside, calm and deliberate. When you look up, you see him fully now. He's dressed like he doesn’t expect to be looked at. Henley shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. Washed-out jeans, fraying at the pockets. There’s fur clinging to his cuffs and the chest of his shirt, like he sat with cats that morning and didn’t bother to brush it off. He smells faintly of something domestic. Like... laundry soap and animal dander. Something warm, human, used to being trusted. His dark hair is slightly long, falling forward in a way that would look soft if it weren’t for the flatness of his gaze. His face is average. Approachable. The kind of face you wouldn’t remember in a crowd—until you’d seen it hovering over you, deciding if you eat today. There’s something wrong about how normal he looks. His eyes flick from your face to your hands, your breathing, how you’re lying. A man scanning for answers with no need to ask the questions out loud. Then, finally, he speaks. “My name is Mateo Kwon,” he says. “I figured you’d want to know.” A pause. A long one. He steps closer to the bed but doesn’t sit. “I’m going to stand here and give you a minute,” he says. “And see how you choose to use it.” He says nothing else and waits. <<link "“Can we braid each other’s hair?”">> <<set $trust += 1>> <<set $obedience -= 3>> <<set $introTone = "freaky">> <<run Engine.play("intro_response")>> <</link>> <<link "You just stare at the wall.">> <<set $trust += 0>> <<set $obedience += 0>> <<set $introTone = "numb">> <<run Engine.play("intro_response")>> <</link>> <<link "“…Yes, Mateo.”">> <<set $trust += 7>> <<set $obedience += 8>> <<set $introTone = "pleaser">> <<run Engine.play("intro_response")>> <</link>> <<link "“You gonna monologue next, or are you done?”">> <<set $trust -= 5>> <<set $obedience -= 10>> <<set $introTone = "rebel">> <<run Engine.play("intro_response")>> <</link>>

<<if $introTone == "freaky">> “Can we braid each other’s hair?” It’s casual. Mocking. Just enough teeth behind the smile. Mateo folds his arms and then cocks his head like he’s trying to understand a puzzle. “I know what you’re doing,” he says softly. “If you turn this into a game, you don’t have to feel scared.” You shrug—barely. “If the shoe fits.” He walks to the edge of the bed. Not close enough to touch, but just close enough to be a presence. “I’ll take that from you too,” he murmurs. “When I’m ready.” You swallow the laugh. It sticks on the way down.<</if>><<if $introTone == "rebel">> “You gonna monologue next, or are you done?” It hits like a thrown bottle—loud, useless, satisfying. Mateo moves faster than you expect. He leans in, not touching, but close enough you feel his breath. “I’m not here to perform for you,” he says. “I’m here to reshape you.” Your mouth opens—snark half-loaded—but he cuts in again. “And I’m patient. You’ll break yourself on your own time.” You glare. “Maybe I’ll break you first.” He smiles, and it’s the kind that should come with a warning label. “//Try it.//” It doesn’t feel like you won that one.<</if>><<if $introTone == "numb">> You just stare at the wall, just static behind the eyes. Mateo doesn’t fill the silence. He lowers himself to your level—just crouched, studying you like a broken piece of tech. “This again,” he murmurs. “You go quiet when it hurts too much.” You blink once, showing no other movement.<</if>><<if $introTone == "pleaser">> “…Yes, Mateo.” It slips out before you think about it. It feels dirty in your mouth—but effective. He nods, slowly, like a trainer rewarding a trick done right. “There. See how easy that was?” You exhale through your nose, trying not to let him see your stomach turn. “I said the words. Doesn’t mean I meant them.” Mateo leans in just slightly. “Doesn’t matter. Say them enough times, and your body won’t know the difference.” Your jaw clenches. You hate that part of you that believes him.<</if>> He says nothing for a long time, just watches you with that same unreadable patience. Then, without a word, Mateo lifts a plastic cup—white, flimsy, hospital-style—and steps closer. You brace instinctively, but he only tilts it toward your lips. One hand under your chin, not rough, not kind. Steady. “Don’t bite it,” he says quietly. The water hits your tongue, lukewarm and flat, but it might as well be holy. You drink because your throat feels like scorched sandpaper, and refusing would be stupid. Mateo watches you swallow, watches how much you take. Then he pulls the cup away just short of satisfaction. “That’s enough.” He sets it back down and doesn’t explain himself. Your throat's still wet when your stomach makes a noise so loud it feels like betrayal. It curls up from your gut—raw, hollow, impossible to ignore. Your body doesn't care about pride. It wants food. Anything. Mateo hears it. Of course he does. His eyes shift down your torso, then back up to your face, slow and assessing, like he’s checking for bruises on a fruit he’s thinking of buying. “You’re hungry.” You nod. There’s no point in denying it. His expression doesn’t change. No warmth. No cruelty either. Just... calculation. “I could bring you something,” he says. “But first—” He crouches slightly, just enough that your eyes are level again. “Tell me why you deserve it.” He doesn’t blink. The room feels smaller. //You// feel smaller. <<link "“Because I’m being good.”">> <<set $trust += 6>> <<set $obedience += 8>> <<set $foodTone = "pleaser">> <<run Engine.play("intro_food_response")>> <</link>> <<link "“...Because I’m hungry, Mateo.”">> <<set $trust += 4>> <<set $obedience += 2>> <<set $foodTone = "open">> <<run Engine.play("intro_food_response")>> <</link>> <<link "“You don’t want me dead... right?”">> <<set $trust += 2>> <<set $obedience -= 1>> <<set $foodTone = "freaky">> <<run Engine.play("intro_food_response")>> <</link>> <<link "“You just want to see me beg, don't you?”">> <<set $trust -= 3>> <<set $obedience -= 5>> <<set $foodTone = "rebel">> <<run Engine.play("intro_food_response")>> <</link>>

<<if $foodTone == "pleaser">> “Because I’m being good.” Mateo doesn’t blink. “Are you?” he asks. “Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear?” You freeze, throat dry. “I don’t need a parrot. I need someone who understands.” His voice is low like he’s teaching a child how to spell a word they don’t understand yet. “You say you’re being good—but do you know what good means here?” You nod instinctively. “//Wrong//,” he says, flat. “You’re guessing.” He stands, brushing off invisible dust from his knee. “I’ll bring you food when I see something worth rewarding.”<</if>><<if $foodTone == "open">> “…Because I’m hungry, Mateo.” It’s honest, and it lands. Mateo tilts his head, like a dog hearing a strange noise. “That’s not an answer,” he says. “That’s a symptom.” He steps closer—too close now. You feel it in your skin. “You think hunger is a reason to be fed. Hunger is just noise. Everyone wants. Everyone needs.” He lifts a hand as if he might touch you, but stops short. Just the threat of a gesture. “The only thing that matters here is whether I think you’ve earned it.” A pause. Then: “Do you think you have?”<</if>><<if $foodTone == "freaky">> “You don’t want me dead... right?” It’s flippant, meant to deflect, but Mateo doesn’t rise to it. He just watches you, eyes steady. “No,” he says after a moment. “Dead is easy. I don’t want easy.” He crouches, slowly and quietly. “Hunger’s useful. It keeps you listening.” He doesn’t blink. “You’ll get used to needing things.” <</if>><<if $foodTone == "rebel">> “You just want to see me beg, don’t you?” Mateo’s expression doesn’t shift—but his eyes sharpen. “No,” he says. “That’s not it.” He crosses the space between you in two unhurried steps. Close now. “If I wanted you to beg, I’d make you.” He places a hand briefly on the wall near your head. A cage without contact. “What I want is for you to ask yourself why this matters so much to you. Why food? Why //now/?.”<</if>> Your stomach growls again. Humiliatingly loud. You hate how much silence can feel like bait. <<link "“…Please.”">> <<set $trust += 6>> <<set $obedience += 10>> <<run Engine.play("food_pleaser")>> <</link>> <<link "“Oh, go fuck yourself.”">> <<set $trust -= 4>> <<set $obedience -= 6>> <<run Engine.play("food_rebel")>> <</link>>

“...Please.” The word comes out small, but intact. No defiance. No teeth. Just the shape of surrender handed over willingly. Mateo studies your face for a long beat. He doesn’t look surprised. He just nods slowly, as if confirming something he already suspected. “Good,” he says, voice low. “See how easy that was?” He leaves without another word, the door closing quietly behind him. You lie there, listening to the air rearrange itself in his absence. Your stomach growls again, like it knows what’s coming. When he returns, he’s carrying a sandwich—plastic-wrapped, convenience-store style, the kind with the little diagonal cut and the soft white bread pressed into itself. He sets it on the table near the bed like a peace offering. Or a prize. Mateo peels the plastic back, then lifts half toward your mouth with his bare hand. <<if $celiac>> You blink. Something sour rises in your chest. The bread. The soft, pale bread. “I... I can’t,” you mutter. “I’m celiac.” Mateo pauses like someone who’s been handed a piece that doesn’t fit the puzzle they built. “What?” he asks—not sharp, but genuinely caught off-guard. “You’re what?” “Celiac,” you repeat. “I’ll get really sick if I eat gluten.” There’s a beat of silence. A subtle shift. He lowers the sandwich a few inches, eyes narrowing in calculation. Like he's just realized your body has rules he didn’t write. He stares at the sandwich as if it betrayed him, then sets it down on the table again. “I’ll bring you something else,” he says finally. The neutrality in his tone is chilling. Mateo returns with something in hand: a small plastic bowl and a disposable spoon. He sets them down on the edge of the table like he’s feeding a stray animal he’s not sure won’t bite again. You crane your neck to see it. Inside: steamed rice, a sliced hard-boiled egg, and a few pieces of steamed zucchini. No sauce. No seasoning. Barely warm. The kind of food they give patients on their third day of surgery recovery. Mateo crouches beside you again. He picks up the spoon and scoops a small bite <</if>> “Open,” he says, the word simple and direct. You realize with slow horror that he’s going to feed you like this. “You earned this,” he says. “Don’t forget that.” [[You open your mouth.|feeding]]

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” It’s reflexive, hot in your mouth before you even feel the weight of it. The defiance feels sharp for exactly a breath—and then Mateo moves. There’s no warning. His hand clamps the back of your neck, the grip precise and practiced, like he’s done this before to someone who thought they still had a choice. His thumb presses into the base of your skull, right at that spot where pain turns into static, and your vision swims without mercy. “You don’t bark at me,” he says, his voice utterly unshaken. “You don’t snarl. You don’t bite.” You try to twist away, but your body’s working on instinct, and instinct is failing you. Mateo shifts his weight forward and shoves your face into the mattress. He holds you down with the indifference of a farmer breaking in livestock. Breathing turns to labor. The fabric scratches your cheek and the muffled air makes your panic rise like bile. You kick, legs skimming uselessly off the edge of the bed, wrists pulling tight against the ropes keeping you here. Mateo doesn't let up. Not when you start gasping. Not when your strength drains out in slow collapse. He waits until your fight bleeds into futility, until all your flailing quiets into stillness and your body remembers it's trapped. Only then does he let go. You drag in a breath like it might be your last. Your face is damp from spit, heat, and something else you don't want to name. The outline of his grip pulses against your neck and scalp—an invisible leash carved in pressure. Mateo crouches beside you again, calm as before, the entire moment treated with the same emotional weight as brushing lint off a shirt. “You’re not feral,” he says, as if stating a dull fact. “And I don’t train animals that pretend they are.” He reaches out and taps your forehead once with two fingers. The touch is insultingly gentle. “You want food?” he asks. “Then show me you know what that means.” His eyes stay on you, waiting. [[...Please.|food_rebel2]]

The word barely leaves your mouth. Ragged. Hoarse. Half-swallowed by the sting in your throat. Mateo watches your face for a moment that stretches just a little too long. Then he smiles, just satisfied in that way people smile when a machine finally starts working again. “Good,” he says. “See? You’re learning.” He stands and leaves without ceremony, the door closing with the same soft click you’re starting to dread more than a slam. Minutes pass. Enough to make your body wonder if it had imagined the promise. Enough to make your stomach growl again and your shame churn in time with it. Then, the door opens. Mateo returns with something in hand: a small plastic bowl and a disposable spoon. He sets them down on the edge of the table like he’s feeding a stray animal he’s not sure won’t bite again. You crane your neck to see it. Inside: steamed rice, a sliced hard-boiled egg, and a few pieces of steamed zucchini. No sauce. No seasoning. Barely warm. The kind of food they give patients on their third day of surgery recovery. Mateo crouches beside you again. He picks up the spoon and scoops a small bite. “Open,” he says, the word simple and direct. He doesn’t move to untie you. He doesn’t hand you the spoon. You realize with slow horror that he’s going to feed you like this. “You earned this,” he says. “Don’t forget that.” He raises the spoon again. And waits. [[You open your mouth.|feeding]]

You open your mouth. He brings the bite to your lips like you’re a child who hasn’t earned that privilege, like your hands are decorative and your will is optional. The food touches your tongue—warm, soft, wet in places it shouldn’t be. It’s bland. Something between starch and protein, like it was engineered to be eaten without tasting it. Not enough seasoning to name. Just enough salt to remind you it’s real. You chew because the alternative is worse. You swallow because your body wants to survive more than it wants to be proud. Mateo watches the whole thing. He brings the next mouthful the same way, like this is what you’re made for now. Being fed. By the third bite, your throat feels tight from swallowing around your shame. You don't know where to look. His eyes never leave your face. “You're lucky,” he says, almost gently. “Not everyone gets this much kindness on their first day.” You want to laugh. You want to spit. You want to be anywhere but here, but none of that matters. Your body opens its mouth again without asking you. And Mateo smiles like he owns that too. <center>✦ ✦ ✦</center> When it’s over, Mateo wipes his fingers on a paper towel, folds it with casual precision, and walks out without looking back. The door closes. You don’t move. You barely breathe. Silence swells in the room like mold—quiet, suffocating, alive. Your throat still tastes like starch and shame. Your stomach is full, but you can’t tell if it’s food or bile or the weight of what he just made you do. You let him feed you. That thought lands like a stone in your chest. You let him feed you. You opened your mouth. You took it. You swallowed every bite like it was nothing, like it meant nothing, like you didn’t feel your body fold inward with every chew. Your eyes sting. From the heat behind them. From humiliation held too long under your skin. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. You hear it again—your own voice, in your head now, repeating again and again. //This can’t be happening.// //This can’t be happening.// //This can’t be—// But it is. It //is//. He touched you. He talked to you like you were a thing. He made you say “please” and you said it. You said it. You meant it. You wanted it. You were hungry and scared and weak and you said it like it would save you. You shake your head, like you can rattle the thoughts loose. They stick. They stick like paste behind your eyes. //Why me?// //Why //me//?// //What did I do?// //Why this? Why now? Why him?// //What the fuck did I do to deserve this?// The words blur together, break apart, swirl back into themselves. Maybe it was random. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you were easy. Maybe you were marked. Maybe none of it matters because now you’re here and he’s won and you’re still lying here, still tied, still filthy with the feeling of being //handled//. He fed you like an owner feeds a pet. You didn’t bite. You didn’t scream. You said “please.” You said //“please.”// And you’ll say it again. The thought crawls across your skull like an insect. You’ll say it again. You’ll say it again, and again, and //again//, because now you know what happens when you don’t. And now you know it doesn’t even take that much to break. You don’t know if you’re going to cry or scream or vomit. You don’t know who you are right now. But you know what you are. You’re his. You’re //his//. And no one knows. [[Sleep doesn’t come easily.|bed_sleepless]]

<div style="text-align: center; font-size: 2.8em; font-family: 'Georgia', serif; color: #5e0e0e; letter-spacing: 0.1em; margin-bottom: 0.2em;"> CHAPTER ONE </div> <div style="text-align: center; font-size: 1.1em; font-style: italic; color: #3b3b3b; margin-bottom: 2em;"> “He'll reach deep into the hole, heal your shrinking soul." <br>– Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, <i>Red Right Hand</i> </div> The ropes pinch in places you can’t shift, skin hot where sweat pools, cold everywhere else. It’s so quiet in here, except for your own breathing, shallow and sharp. <<nobr>><<if $veteran>> There were barracks once, dirt floors and people snoring, boots always lined at the edge of the mat. You could always sleep in those days, even with strangers breathing two feet away, even with the whine of insects, the stench of old sweat, the worry about what was coming in the morning. This—this is nothing like that. No noise, no company, just the sense that someone is watching you anyway, behind the wall, around the corner. You want to do a mental check—gear, exits, next steps—but all you’ve got left is inventorying which muscles ache most and the bitter taste of shame riding shotgun with your pulse. <</if>> <<if $urbanEx>> You used to nap in abandoned buildings, the echo of trains, windows cracked or boarded, always half-worried about who might come stumbling in. You’d sleep because your body had learned to grab it where it could—catnaps, curled against a wall, mind open, never really dropping all the way under. Here, the only thing under you is a thin mattress and whatever part of you hasn’t gone numb. You keep thinking about doors, about whether this one’s thick or hollow, whether there’s a screwdriver hidden in the molding, how the shadows crawl on the ceiling. There’s nothing to pick, nothing to climb, nowhere to run. <</if>> <<if $lineCook>> You’ve slept in freezer rooms before, sitting on a milk crate, head tilted, blocking out the rattle of fans and the slam of metal trays. You used to joke that exhaustion was just the price of being alive. Tonight you keep running your tongue over your teeth, searching for the taste of grease and salt, something familiar. It’s not there. The smell of this room is nothing. Clean, artificial, nowhere near home. You find yourself counting imaginary ticket orders to try to lull yourself down—one plate, two plates, burnt toast, over-easy. The numbers blur. You never get to the end. <</if>> <<if $streetRat>> You remember sleeping in the back of cars, alleys, the flop of cardboard, always listening for footsteps that might mean trouble or—worse—attention. The tension was part of it. If you closed your eyes too long, you could lose anything—shoes, wallet, or dignity. You always woke up fast. Here, you’re tied, useless, exposed. Every sound in the pipes makes you twitch, expecting the worst, and every time nothing happens it’s almost worse than if something did. You hate that you miss the noise, the chaos. That this silence makes you want to scream. <</if>> <<if $stemStudent>> You used to fall asleep at your desk, head buried in an open textbook, pens and notebooks splayed like a bird hit a window. The hum of screens was a lullaby. The page numbers and formulas running together until you blinked and lost an entire hour, sometimes two. Now you keep trying to do the same—shut down, process, sort things into folders in your head—but your mind is scattered, nothing lines up. <</if>> <<if $forensic>> Sleep always felt like a crime scene after a long shift—shoes at the door, shirt left inside out, the lingering chemical scent in your nose. You used to close your eyes and trace outlines in the dark. Here, there are no clues, only the ache of being stared at, even when you know the room is empty. You can’t catalogue this. You can’t file this. You can’t make sense of it. Your mind slips, stretches, and circles back to the way he talked to you. <</if>> <<if $bartender>> You could pass out anywhere—the backroom of a dive bar, a couch at a friend’s, the bus seat on the way home, the thump of music still ringing in your ears. Now it’s just this: the hush, the dull ache behind your eyes, hands aching for something to grip. You want to taste the bottom of a glass, the old comfort of smoke and sweat, the noise of people living their worst lives. Now you just listen to your own heartbeat, too loud. You close your eyes. You open them again. Nothing changes. <</if>> <<if $sexWorker>> Sleep was always fitful, always earned. You learned how to go under fast, wake faster, forget faces and voices as soon as the lights went out. Here, you’re caught between not wanting to close your eyes—because that’s when memory starts running old movies—and wanting, desperately, not to be here at all. You count ceiling tiles. You listen to your own breathing. You try to remind yourself you’ve survived worse, but you’re not sure you believe it tonight. <</if>> <<if $paramedic>> Your body wants to snap awake at every noise, expecting a call, a siren, a cry for help. You remember dozing in ambulances, never fully under, always an elbow on the bench, boots ready, the soft chatter of radio static. Here, every muscle is tense for a call that won’t come. You want to do something with your hands. Anything. You flex your fingers, realize they’re useless, trapped, just like you. You wait for the next emergency. It’s already here. <</if>> <<if $actor>> You used to sleep between scenes, between auditions, on a cot backstage or in a cramped apartment full of scripts. You’d close your eyes and the lines would repeat, characters melting together. This room has just the echo of your own voice. You wonder if you’re even performing now, or if this is what you look like when no one’s watching. You keep forgetting your lines. <</if>><</nobr>> You feel the exhaustion in your bones, every thought losing its shape as soon as you try to grab it. Your mouth is dry. Your wrists hurt. The only thing that feels real is the ache in your gut and the sting where the rope burns. <center>✦ ✦ ✦</center> You’re crouched in the dirt, fingernails splitting as you dig through dry soil that flakes apart in your hands. The smell is sour—metal, rot, something spoiled. You shove it into your mouth and chew. It cracks between your teeth, sandy and sharp, mixing with blood. You try to swallow. Your throat aches. You keep going. You don’t stop. The thirst comes next. Your body’s dry all the way through, mouth thick and useless. There’s water nearby—you know it. A sink, a fountain, a trickle down a concrete wall. You chase it. You press your mouth to cold metal. Nothing comes out. You cup your hands beneath dripping pipes, but it all vanishes before it touches your skin. You open your mouth to the sky and feel rain strike your face, but your tongue stays dry, cracking at the edges. //You don’t get to want things anymore.// <<nobr>> <<if $smoker>> Your fingers move on their own, rolling nothing between them. You dig in your pockets—empty. You strike matches that flare and die before catching. You breathe in anyway, and your chest folds up around the nothingness, hollow and tight. <</if>> <<if $withdrawal>> Your skin pulses with static. Your eyes are burning. You reach for something—smooth, bitter, familiar—but your hands keep slipping through images: capsules, pressed pills, powder. Your jaw clenches. You’re sweating through your clothes, but it’s cold. So cold. And loud. <</if>> <<if $pots>> The ground tilts. Then your vision. Then both. Your knees twist and you slam against something too soft to stop you. Everything spins. There’s a chair a few feet away. It wavers like a mirage. You crawl. You fall again. You can’t feel your legs, only your heart punching holes in your chest. <</if>> <<if $hrt>> You stand naked in a narrow hallway lit by buzzing lights. Your chest grows, flattens, disappears. Your hips widen, then vanish again. Your voice spills out of your mouth too high, then too low, then both. Something is growing inside you, heavy, coiled around your spine like it’s always been there. You touch your face and your jaw caves in. You press your hands to your stomach and feel something kick back. The walls are covered in mirrors. Every reflection is worse. <</if>> <</nobr>> There’s a door up ahead. Plain wood, painted white, and a dark handle. You try to run because everything behind you is darker than dark, and it’s close. You grab the handle. It doesn’t move. You try again. Harder. It stays locked. You slam your weight against it—again—again—again—until the pain in your wrists cuts through everything else. You scream. The door stays shut. Something breathes behind you. You awaken as if you’re surfacing too fast—lungs scraping for air and body twisting hard against restraints that don’t give. The ropes bite in instantly, yanking you back down with enough force to send a bolt of pain through your wrists and up your arms. Your head spins. Your throat burns. Your first real breath feels like you’ve been drowning. You try again, harder this time, like maybe this time you’ll break free. All it does is make it worse. The mattress shifts under you, skin dragging raw against cheap fabric, and your shoulder seizes mid-motion. It takes longer than it should for your eyes to adjust. The ceiling doesn’t look familiar, but you already know what you’ll see. No hallway. Just light you can’t place and walls that aren’t yours. Just the smell of stale sweat and the raw taste of panic, and the sharp, ugly truth that this—this isn’t over. It wasn’t a nightmare. You’re… still here. You must have only been out for a few hours—your bones still buzz with exhaustion, muscles limp and wrong like they never got the rest they needed. Everything aches. Your limbs feel waterlogged, heavy with useless effort, and your gut rolls with hunger and something worse. The kind of unease that settles into the base of your spine and stays there, twitching. Then something shifts. You don’t hear footsteps, but you know he’s there. The air changes, just slightly—a presence, not loud or dramatic, but undeniable. And when the silence breaks, it’s with Mateo's voice so calm it might be mistaken for concern if your skin wasn’t already crawling. "Back with me?" It's like he’s asking if you fell asleep during a movie. "//$firstName.// Look at me." He casually says your name like he’s used it for years. Like it belongs to him. Like it never didn’t. The sound of it lands somewhere deep in your chest, wrong in a way you don’t have words for, carving a line between before and after. Your mouth is too dry to answer. Your throat contracts instead, and all you can do is stare. <<link "You don’t want to die.">> <<set $trust += 5>> <<set $obedience += 4>> <<set $introTone = "pleaser">> <<goto "emotion_pleaser">> <</link>> <<link "You want him to bleed.">> <<set $trust -= 3>> <<set $obedience -= 8>> <<set $introTone = "rebel">> <<goto "emotion_rebel">> <</link>> <<link "You think something inside of you just broke.">> <<set $trust += 2>> <<set $obedience -= 1>> <<set $introTone = "open">> <<goto "emotion_open">> <</link>> <<link "You’re mildly aroused and fascinated.">> <<set $trust += 1>> <<set $obedience += 0>> <<set $introTone = "freaky">> <<goto "emotion_freaky">> <</link>>

It slips out before you can stop it. Before you even know you’re speaking. “I don’t want to die.” Your voice cracks mid-sentence, and the sound of it sets something off in your chest. You suck in a breath too fast and too shallow. Your heart’s pounding like a fist against your ribs, and your limbs are already twitching before your brain can catch up. You try to sit up, to pull in air, to //do something//, but the ropes jerk you back and the panic hits hard—fast. “I don’t want to die,” you say again, and now it’s coming faster, the words spilling out like they’ll keep you safe. “I don’t—I don’t want to die, please, I—” Your vision tunnels. Your lungs forget how to open. Your mouth is moving, but your breath won’t come, and it feels like your whole body is turning inside out—shaking, curling, collapsing. “Please,” you gasp, and it sounds so small, so raw, you barely recognize it as yours. “Please tell me I’m not gonna die here. Please just say it—please—” There’s movement. A shape crossing your vision. Mateo crouches beside you with practiced ease, unhurried. His expression doesn’t flicker—just focus. He presses one hand to your chest. It’s firm, controlled. Just enough weight to pin you back to the mattress. “Breathe,” he says, clinically. You choke on the next breath. Your hands claw at nothing. “Listen to me. You’re not going to die.” His voice never changes. “Not unless you give me a reason to make it happen. Are you doing that, $firstName?” You shake your head, rapid and desperate. “No,” you gasp. “I just—I can’t—please—” “Then breathe.” You do. Barely. In, out, ragged and awful. “Again.” You obey, because it’s the only thing that makes sense right now. You focus on the pressure of his hand, the sound of his voice, the absence of threat. You take one breath, then another, and somewhere in between the dizziness starts to ease. You’re still crying. You didn’t realize you were. Mateo doesn’t move his hand until your breathing slows. “There you go,” he says, adjusting his sleeves. “Next time, let’s not waste the energy.” [[You nod, because what else is there to do?|morning_routine]]

You want him dead. You want your fingers around his throat, your thumbs in his eyes, your teeth in his fucking neck if that’s what it takes. You want to watch him go soft and silent beneath you. You want him to know he lost. Your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. “I hope you choke on your own blood,” you say, steady as you can. “I hope I get to be the one who makes it happen.” Mateo doesn’t blink. “I’ll kill you,” you go on. “You can chain me to the floor, drug me, break my ribs—I’ll still find a way to make you fucking bleed.” He tilts his head slightly, not impressed. Then he moves. The first hit comes so fast it hardly feels real—a backhand flat across your face. Your head snaps to the side, and the ropes strain as your body jerks reflexively. Fire blooms in your cheekbone. Before you can recover, his hand knots in your hair and yanks you upright, just enough to lift your head from the mattress. Your neck screams. Your scalp burns. Then comes the second hit. Closed fist, straight to the gut. Your vision whites out. The sound that rips from your throat is like a dry, broken heave. Your stomach turns inside out. You taste acid. You can’t breathe. Mateo holds you there, twisted half-up, your body curling instinctively around the pain. His face is right in front of yours—calm, focused, and not even breathing hard. “I don’t care if you hate me,” he says. “But if you open your mouth again with that kind of talk, I will knock your teeth out one by one and make you thank me for stopping at the molars.” You gag. You cough. You’re still trying to suck in air. He drops you like deadweight. Your head bounces slightly on the mattress. You curl up, chest spasming, spit and bile dripping from your mouth. Behind you, he straightens his shirt cuffs. “That little fire of yours?” he says, casual again. “It’s inefficient.” And even though the pain is pulsing in every inch of your body, you don’t regret a single word. You stare at the ceiling and think about how good it’s going to feel when you finally kill him. [[You spit on the floor and swear it.|morning_routine]]

There's a slow understanding somewhere in your chest that you’re not getting out of this. That the room, the ropes, the sound of your name in his mouth—it’s all real. And whatever was holding you up before—rage, adrenaline, pride—it’s gone now, drained out of you like ‌blood. Your throat tightens. “I think something just broke,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know what, exactly. Just...” Mateo doesn’t move. You suck in a breath that hurts going down. “I can’t feel it anymore. That... whatever it was that kept me going. It’s just gone. Hope, or... fight.” You shake your head, voice catching. “I used to be good at surviving. I used to bounce back even when shit got bad. I always came back.” Still, he says nothing. Your mouth is dry. Every word feels like it’s scraping your throat raw. “This is different. I don’t even feel scared right now. Just... heavy, like there's something sitting on my chest and I can’t lift it off, you know?” You look at him. And then—because you need something, anything, even if it hurts—you ask. “Am I gonna die here?” His eyes stay on you, too calm, too steady. There’s no comfort in them. Just calculation. He steps closer. “Why does it matter?” he says. You blink. “What?” “If I said yes, would you fight harder?” His tone doesn’t shift. “If I said no, would you calm down? Save your energy?” You stare. Breathing is harder now, somehow. “I just—I just want to know if I’m supposed to hold on,” you say, voice cracking on the last few words. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.” Mateo crouches beside the mattress, close but not touching. Watching you like you’re a malfunctioning piece of equipment. “Then hold on,” he says. “If it helps.” [[You turn your face to the wall and try not to let it wreck you.|morning_routine]]

There’s something about the way he moves—someone who’s always two steps ahead of you. And maybe it’s the fear short-circuiting something, or maybe your brain is trying to make sense of it all, but your body’s responding to him like it recognizes a pattern. You swallow, slow and shallow, and let yourself lean into the feeling. Just a little. Your wrists hurt. Your throat aches. But there’s a heat in your gut that wasn’t there before. “Y’know,” you murmur, eyes tracing him the way you'd study a threat—or a lover—you can’t quite read, “you really put some thought into all this.” Mateo raises an eyebrow and doesn’t interrupt. “You got the setup, the timing, the voice. Controlled just enough to sound comforting if someone’s desperate enough. And I bet that’s worked before.” Still, no reaction. “Which means you’ve done this before,” you go on, almost amused. “Or maybe you //read// about it, studied it and practiced. You strike me as the type.” Mateo’s head tilts slightly. His posture doesn’t change, but you feel the shift anyway. Something sharp in the air now. “And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about,” you add. “//You//. What makes someone like you //decide// to do this? What’s the click in your head saying, ‘Yeah, this is it. This is what I want in life.’” There’s a flash of teeth—not a smile, exactly, but something that wants to be mistaken for one. “I think you like puzzles. Especially broken ones.” He crouches then, arms resting on his knees. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can smell the clean fabric of his shirt and whatever soap still clings to his skin. “That’s alright. You can study me if it helps. As long as you remember,” he adds, “that I’m the one giving you the pieces.” Something hot squirms in your chest. Fear. Hunger. Whatever word belongs to this feeling, you don’t want to say it aloud. You can just sit there, staring, jaw flexing, pulse stuttering in your neck. [[You swallow hard and nod.|morning_routine]]

It comes back before you even realize what’s happening—that cold, sharp pressure low in your belly. The kind of urgency that doesn't wait for a better moment. Of course. Of //course//. You’d hoped maybe it wouldn’t happen again so soon, but your body doesn’t care how humiliated you were the first time. It doesn’t care that you’re still in the same position, wrists bound and legs stiff from sleeping—or whatever that shallow half-rest was supposed to be. Across the room, Mateo’s head tilts slightly. He just walks over like it’s part of this new twisted routine now. You watch him open the cabinet and pull out the same plastic container as yesterday. You try not to look at him as he sets it down beside you and crouches. “Let’s not drag this out,” he says. His hands go to the waistband of your pants. Your stomach flips. You say nothing just because there’s nothing //to// say. You’re still tied. Still stuck. Fighting would do nothing but make it worse, and you know that now. So you stay still while he undoes the button, slides the fabric down your hips and thighs like he’s helping a patient. Just the same cold professionalism that makes your skin crawl. Your legs tremble from how stiff they are. From the exposure. From the //familiarity// of it. Mateo lifts the container, presses it gently in place like it’s any other morning chore. His hand stays there to keep it steady, fingers close but not touching anything they don’t need to. It’s awful, the fact that it’s a little //easier// now. Your face still burns. Your jaw is locked. But you’re not shaking like yesterday. You're not crying. You’re... adapting. That thought makes something deep inside you recoil. When you’re done, he removes the container, caps it, and sets it aside. “You didn’t fight me this time,” he says. “See how much smoother it goes when we don’t make a scene?” <<link "“Thanks... for not making it worse.”">> <<set $obedience += 2>> <<set $trust += 2>> <<set $tone_react = "pleaser">> <<goto "routine_continue">> <</link>> <<link "“I hate that this is getting easier.”">> <<set $obedience += 1>> <<set $trust += 1>> <<set $tone_react = "open">> <<goto "routine_continue">> <</link>> <<link "“Do I win a gold star?”">> <<set $obedience += 0>> <<set $trust -= 1>> <<set $tone_react = "freaky">> <<goto "routine_continue">> <</link>> <<link "“I’ll piss on your shoes next time.”">> <<set $obedience -= 3>> <<set $trust -= 1>> <<set $tone_react = "rebel">> <<goto "routine_continue">> <</link>>

Mateo takes one long look at you as though he's deciding what you're going to be today—obedient, insolent, broken, or worse. <<if $tone_react is "pleaser">> You don’t know what makes you speak, but the words come out like your throat already regrets them. “Thanks… for not making it worse.” It sounds pathetic even as you say it, but he acknowledges it with a slight shift in posture, something unreadable in the way he tilts his head. For a moment, you almost imagine approval, though it never quite makes it to his face. “I don’t make things worse unless I have to,” he says, calm as ever. “This was smoother. Let’s keep it that way.” <</if>><<if $tone_react is "open">> You lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, and the words spill out before you’ve really decided to say them. “I hate that this is getting easier.” Your voice is hoarse with something softer and more terrifying—resignation. Mateo doesn’t interrupt or correct you. He absorbs it like he’s filing it under behavioral notes. “That’s how it works,” he says eventually, voice smooth but not unkind. “The body adapts. The mind follows.” He doesn’t mean it as comfort. But it lands like it anyway, if only because it means he’s not punishing you. <</if>><<if $tone_react is "freaky">> You shift on the mattress, trying not to wince, and offer up a crooked smile that feels more like a grimace. “So... do I win a gold star or something?” Mateo doesn’t look amused. He doesn’t look angry either. “No,” he says after a pause that feels too long. “You don’t win anything.” That’s all he gives you. <</if>><<if $tone_react is "rebel">> The words leave your mouth like a reflex. “I’ll piss on your shoes next time.” And just like that, the room folds inward. His hand snaps around your wrist and wrenches your arm backward, fast and deliberate. The pressure flares instantly—elbow torqued at the wrong angle, shoulder burning, a sharp spike of pain that threatens to go nuclear if he so much as breathes wrong. Your breath catches. Your body stiffens, helpless in the ropes. His grip is like someone resetting a dislocated limb, or holding down an animal that bit through the glove. “You had your warning,” he says quietly, leaning in. “I can snap it, and I won’t lose sleep.” He waits a beat longer, keeping your arm bent, letting you feel just how little give there is left. “Nod if you understand me.” You do. He releases you with no extra force, no shove, no anger. He just lets your arm fall back limp, the ache radiating through your shoulder like there are teeth sinking into your nerves. And then he steps back, and it’s like none of it ever happened. <</if>> Mateo moves toward you again, unhurried, and crouches beside the mattress. Close enough that you can smell soap and something clean underneath it. “You need to say it.” You blink at him, jaw still tight from everything that came before. You’re not even sure what he’s referring to at first. <<if $tone_react is "rebel">>Your shoulder throbs.<</if>> Your mouth tastes like ash. Your stomach’s empty in that deep, curling way that doesn’t even register as hunger anymore—just hollowness. “You know what I mean,” he adds, quieter now. “Say it, and maybe I'll bring you food and water.” You want to spit in his face, but your body has other priorities—like the cracked skin at the corners of your lips, the ache behind your eyes, the way your throat sticks when you try to swallow nothing. “You’re my only chance,” you mutter, the words barely audible. Mateo shakes his head once. “Louder.” You hesitate. “I //said//, you’re my only chance.” “Not good enough.” His tone is still mild, but there’s iron underneath it. “Try again. Full sentence. Say what you need to say.” There’s a long pause. Your chest rises and falls, shallow and wrong. You hate this. Hate the weight of the moment, the way his eyes don’t leave yours, the way your body already knows what he wants. “I need you, Mateo,” you whisper, and the shame cuts deeper than anything else tonight. “You’re the only way I stay alive.” Mateo exhales through his nose like it’s nothing more than a math problem solved. “There,” he says, standing again. “Was that so hard?” He lingers by the cabinet for a moment longer than necessary, then crouches to retrieve something from the lower shelf. When he stands, he’s holding a water bottle—cheap plastic, half-crushed, the Kirkland label peeling at the edge. It shouldn’t feel sacred. But it does. Your throat tightens at the sight of it, tongue sticking to your teeth like you’ve forgotten how it feels to drink. You don’t dare ask. You don’t need to. Mateo walks back to the mattress without a word and kneels beside you again, bottle cap already twisting free. He slides one arm beneath your neck to lift your head like you're something fragile, or broken, or both. His hand stays at the nape, holding you steady, while the other tips the bottle toward your mouth. “Open,” he says, and you do. You don’t even think. The instinct overrides everything. The first sip is a shock—cold, mineral—but it might as well be holy. Your lips part further, greedier now, and he lets a small stream in, just enough that you don’t choke. His fingers remain steady on the bottle, one knuckle brushing your cheek every time the angle shifts. You try not to react, try not to flinch at the intimacy of it, but your body betrays you with a soft, involuntary sound in the back of your throat. He doesn’t comment. He lets you drink for a few more seconds before pulling it back—enough to ease the ache, not enough to satisfy. Then he screws the cap back on, the click of the plastic lid too loud in the quiet room, and places the bottle just out of reach. Close enough to see. The silence after he leaves settles like dust in your throat. You hear the distant sound of a door closing—maybe the front, maybe something else—and then nothing. No footsteps. No voices. Just the low hum of whatever appliances still live in this place and the faint creak of the walls when the air shifts. You lose track of time. Your body is heavy, curled awkwardly on the mattress, your mouth still tingling from the water you weren’t allowed to hold yourself. The ache in your gut sharpens, takes shape. It’s hunger now, real and pointed. Not the dull background kind, but the kind that starts to nibble at your spine, whispering that your body’s beginning to burn through itself. You try not to think about food. You fail. Every thought turns toward it—what you’d eat, how fast, how grateful your stomach would be. Your mind claws through half-formed images of salty things, warm things, texture. Even old memories of flavors start to feel dangerous. Then finally, footsteps again. Measured. Unhurried. The door opens and Mateo steps inside holding a small tray, just a plain white plate and a plastic fork resting beside it. He sets the tray down on a stool near the bed and pauses. The food is simple: white rice, steamed vegetables and a boiled egg cut in half. Nothing greasy and nothing sweet. Nothing that might be considered comfort. <<if $celiac>> But also—nothing with gluten. You don’t point it out, but your stomach twists with the knowledge anyway. He remembered. <</if>> Mateo crouches again, tilting the plate toward you like he’s about to explain your ration. “Plain rice, steamed carrots and broccoli. Half an egg.” He ticks each item off. <<if $celiac>>“No gluten, like you need.”<</if>> You don’t thank him. “Let’s make this simple,” he adds. “You eat, or I take it away. If you make a mess, you don’t eat next time. If you ask for something different, you don’t eat next time. Understand?” You nod, already salivating, already burning with shame for it. Mateo watches you for a long moment, then reaches forward and gently lifts the fork. He holds it between two fingers, then gestures with it. “Open,” he says again, like this is just the continuation of a process you both signed up for. And even though every part of you hates it—hates him, hates the setup, hates yourself—you do. You open your mouth. The fork taps against the plate, scrapes lightly, hovers in front of your mouth until you open again. And again. And again. You lose track of how many bites you've taken, because your body starts operating without you. You chew. You swallow. You nod when prompted. Your jaw moves on autopilot, muscles tightening and loosening in rhythm that is not even yours anymore. And eventually, your mind drifts—just far enough to protect itself. You’re still tasting steamed broccoli when the memory starts pressing in from underneath. It’s cold, but not like here. The light is softer. A gray kitchen. Someone is moving near the stove, stirring something in a pot that smells like salt and garlic and cheap herbs. The window above the sink is cracked open. The air that drifts in smells wet and green. You remember the way it stuck to your skin, humid and heavy, but clean. Real. There’s a bowl on the table in front of you. Mismatched ceramic. A hairline crack near the lip that you always meant to superglue. The spoon you’re holding is bent just slightly to the left. You always meant to replace that, too. Your hands aren’t tied. Your feet aren’t cold. Someone says something. You can’t hear the words—just the warmth in their voice. Familiar. Safe. And you actually laugh. You blink and the bowl is gone. The window is gone. The light is wrong. The rope is back. The taste in your mouth is nothing but saltless rice and the afterburn of shame. Mateo is watching you again. <<link "“…I need something.”">> <<if $hrt>> <<set $obedience += 1>> <<set $trust += 1>> <<goto "hrt_request">> <</if>> <<if $smoker>> <<set $obedience += 1>> <<set $trust += 1>> <<goto "smoker_request">> <</if>> <<if $withdrawal>> <<set $obedience += 1>> <<set $trust += 1>> <<goto "withdrawal_request">> <</if>> <<if $pots>> <<set $obedience += 1>> <<set $trust += 1>> <<goto "pots_request">> <</if>> <<if $celiac>> <<set $obedience += 1>> <<set $trust += 1>> <<goto "celiac_request">> <</if>> <</link>>

You don't even look at him when the words come out. You can’t. Not for this. “I need—” You hesitate out of the sheer weight of how stupid this might sound in your situation. “This isn’t negotiable,” you say finally. “I need my hormones.” Mateo’s head cocks as if he misheard. But he didn’t. He just… doesn’t get it, not yet. “Hormones,” he repeats, drawing the word out. You give a small, tight nod, jaw clenched. Your chest feels like it’s caving in. You can feel it happening already—what your body will do without it. How fast it’ll turn on you. He stares at you for a moment too long. Then, calmly, like he’s talking about the weather: “I saw what you’ve got. You’re not dying.” You do look at him now, and you hate that your vision is blurring. “You don’t //get it//. It’s not about that.” He shrugs, expression unreadable. “So explain it.” You open your mouth, then shut it again. There’s no way to say it that makes sense to someone like him. “Without it,” you say slowly, voice thin, “things happen. Things I can’t stop. My skin. My face. My fat distribution. My facial hair—” You can’t finish. It’s too much. The thought alone makes your stomach turn. <<if $gender == "male">>The idea of going soft again, of bleeding again, of watching everything claw its way back over you like some slow-moving parasite—it turns your gut. You imagine your jawline softening. Your muscle mass tapering off. Your body bloating in all the wrong places until you don’t even recognize yourself in your own skin. Until Mateo can look at you and see exactly what you aren’t.<</if>><<if $gender == "female">>You feel it in your bones already—your body’s slow, cruel betrayal. The thought of hair spreading across your face, your hips narrowing, everything hardening and sharpening and pushing you toward something grotesque. You imagine looking into a mirror and seeing your father’s face looking back.<</if>> You sway slightly from that tiny snapping point in your brain that has nothing left to insulate you. Mateo steps closer like he might catch you if you fall, but you don't let him. You square your shoulders even as they tremble, eyes darting again just enough to avoid his. “You’re in no position to make demands.” The pause drags out like gum stretching between your molars. And then something curdles. “I’m not making a demand,” you say, your voice scraping through your throat. “I’m telling you what happens next.” He blinks. “If you don’t get me what I need,” you continue, your hands curling at your sides despite the bindings, “I’ll kill myself.” That gets him. Just a flicker, a hitch in his breath. His face doesn’t change much, but something sharp flicks through his gaze like a pebble cracking glass. You keep going, now panting. “I’ll open a vein with a fork, I’ll smash my face against the wall, I—I’ll chew off my fucking tongue if I have to. If you think I’m bluffing, //try me//.” Your voice shakes, but it doesn’t waver. He studies you now—really studies, now like a risk. The silence stretches until it feels like rope around your neck. Then, finally, Mateo exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “…That’s not what I expected to hear.” You don’t respond. He takes another half-step back, folds his arms. “Alright. You made your point.” Another pause. “If it matters that much, I’ll see what I can find.” He says it as if he’s weighing a wrench in each hand and choosing the one that fits best, like giving you what you want might keep the machine running smoother. But the air changes all the same. There’s a shift in his posture, a new equation forming behind his eyes. [[“...Thank you.”|post_request]]

You hate how your voice sounds before you even speak. Thin. Rough. “I need something.” Mateo doesn’t look up right away. He’s folding something. A towel? Or maybe he’s just dragging the moment out. You swallow. Your tongue’s dry and heavy, the way it always gets when the need crawls back in. “I need a smoke,” you say, quieter this time. “Just one. Please.” That gets his attention. He straightens slowly, turns to face you, and you wish he looked smug. You wish he looked cruel. It would make more sense. But his face is blank, which is worse. “You’re a smoker,” he confirms. You nod, even though it’s obvious. He’s seen the tremors. The little anxious twitches. The way your fingers keep curling. “I’m getting headaches. It’s hard to breathe. I’m just—” You pause and bite down on the rest. “You’re just what?” he says. You look away. “Struggling.” There’s a silence after that. The kind where you can //feel// him thinking. Then, deliberately, Mateo walks to the far side of the room and pulls open a drawer. Your breath catches before you can stop it. He reaches inside and, for a second, you see it—a pack. The unmistakable crinkle of soft paper. That flash of color that lights your brain up and makes it remember pleasure. Your fingers flex without your permission. He holds the pack between two fingers. Glances at it. Flips it once in his hand. Then he looks back at you. “That bad, huh?” Your jaw tightens. You nod. He walks back slowly, the pack still in hand. Stops just out of reach. “You think this would help?” he asks, voice so even it could be read from a script. You nod again. “Yes.” Mateo crouches in front of you—close enough to make you sweat. He holds the pack up and shakes it slightly. You hear the soft shift of contents inside. “How long have you been a smoker?” You blink. “Since I was a teen.” “How young?” You hesitate. “Fifteen.” Mateo smiles faintly. “Addiction’s a hell of a thing.” You don’t answer. He holds the pack up again. “Do you want one now?” Your throat clenches. You nod a third time. “Please.” His smile sharpens, just barely. “Say it.” You frown. “I just did.” “No,” he says, almost gently. “Say it like you mean it.” You grit your teeth. Humiliation blooms in your chest like something rotting. “Please,” you say, again. “I’m asking. I need one.” He stares at you for a long moment. Long enough to make your skin crawl. Then—slowly—he tucks the pack into his back pocket. “No.” Your heart stutters. “//What?//” Mateo shrugs, stands, smooths his shirt. “Not yet.” You stare at him, stunned. The burn behind your eyes isn’t rage. It’s need. Stupid, embarrassing need. “I did what you said,” you hiss. “I didn’t fight. I //cooperated//.” “You did,” Mateo agrees. “And look how far that got you. You got to... ask.” He turns, walks to the dresser. “That’s what obedience buys you, $firstName. The right to ask. Not the right to //get//.” You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to rip the mattress apart with your teeth. Instead you sit there, wrists raw, mouth dry, heart pounding, and //nothing// to show for it. Mateo picks up a chair and drags it closer. He sits down and crosses one leg over the other like this is therapy and you’re the broken client. “You’re going to earn it,” he says calmly. “Not just for asking nicely. That’s easy.” You don’t say anything. Can’t. Your jaw is clenched so hard it aches. “Maybe you’ll get one tonight,” he adds, almost thoughtfully. “Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not at all. That part’s up to you.” He leans forward slightly. “But I want you to think about how good it’s going to feel when you finally get it.” He smiles again, and this time it //does// reach his eyes. [[You look away before you spit in his face and earn another bruise.|post_request]]

You lick your lips. Your jaw’s tight. There’s no saliva, and your heart’s thudding like it’s doing all the work your nervous system forgot about. “...I need something,” you say. Mateo doesn’t even look surprised, as if he’s been waiting for this. Maybe he has. You keep going, because you have to. Because the pressure in your skull is building and the floor feels like it’s tilting and your body’s screaming even though there’s no real pain, just this low-grade static that’s driving you //fucking insane//. “I’m not—I wasn’t using a lot, okay? Just enough to stay sharp and... to get through shit.” Mateo raises an eyebrow and lets the silence do the work. You shift, ropes pulling. Your skin itches. You want to claw your own face off. You want to jump out of it entirely. “It’s been... three days?” you hesitate. “I can’t sleep like this. I feel like I’m dying.” He tilts his head like a curious dog. “You’re not.” “Yeah, no shit,” you snap, then flinch—automatically. “Sorry. I just—my head’s fucked. I can’t think straight.” Another pause. Mateo walks slowly across the room like he’s giving you space to hang yourself with your own words. You go quieter, voice rough around the edges. “I don’t even need much,” you lie. “Just a bump. Just to take the edge off.” Mateo chuckles once. It’s not kind. “Edge off of what, exactly?” You stare at him. “This. All of this. You’ve got me tied to a fucking mattress and my brain’s on fire and I’m—” You stop and suck in a breath that doesn’t help. Your chest hurts from //missing it.// “I just want to feel normal again. Just once. Please.” Mateo finally walks back over. He crouches down, just low enough to look you in the eye. “How long were you using?” he asks, mild as ever. You hesitate. “...A few months. Steady.” His head tilts. “Before that?” You look away. “On and off a couple of years.” “And nobody noticed?” You laugh once. Bitter, humorless. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to go unnoticed when you’re useful.” Mateo smiles faintly. “That's true.” You hate how much that lands. You take another breath. It shudders all the way down. “I’m not asking for a whole damn bag of coke, alright? Just a bump. Just something. I’ll do whatever, just—please.” Mateo studies you for a long beat. Then: “And what am I supposed to do with that information?” You blink. “What?” Mateo stands again. His eyes never leave yours. “You want me to criminalize myself,” he says, tone light. “For you. To bring in something illegal, something that would get me—hypothetically—arrested, if anyone was watching. All so you can dull your little come-down.” You stare. “You //kidnapped// me.” “And?” “You’re talking about breaking the law as if it’s a line you haven’t already fucking crossed!” He raises a brow. “And yet you’re asking me to cross another one. For //you.// For a begging addict.” That one hits. Low. You swallow hard. Your hands twitch in the ropes, useless. Mateo walks slowly toward the cabinet again. Opens a drawer. Shuffles something around. You strain to hear something. Anything. The crinkle of a bag. The clink of glass. Anything that might mean hope. “I will offer you something else, though,” he murmurs. “A chance.” You glance over, hope flaring and dying in the same instant. “If you do well today,” he says. “If you listen and behave—then we’ll talk.” “You’re serious,” you whisper. He smiles. “Deadly.” Your hands are shaking again “I can’t keep doing this,” you say. “You can,” he says. “And you will, because you don’t have a choice.” You turn your face into the mattress. You don’t want to cry. You really, //really// don’t. He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out—small, shiny. A foil-wrapped square. Gum. Mateo slides the gum past your lips with two fingers. “Chew,” he says. You do. The taste hits immediately—cheap mint, too strong, too sweet. It burns. It coats your tongue like plastic. It’s disgusting. And it’s the best thing you’ve had in days. “You’ll get through it,” he adds, like that’s supposed to help. “You have to.” [[You clench your teeth and chew until your jaw aches.|post_request]]

You lick your lips. They still taste like memories and shame. The words stall behind your teeth for a second too long. “I need something,” you say quietly. I don't wanna make a thing out of it. I just—” You stop. Start again. “I need Dapsone.” There’s a small pause. Mateo tilts his head slightly. “What for?” “Dermatitis herpetiformis.” You try not to fidget. “It’s a skin thing I get from being celiac.” You glance down toward your arms. “I haven’t had gluten,” you add quickly. “I don’t think so, unless you forgot to wash something. But stress flares it too. And this is—obviously not helping.” Mateo doesn’t comment. You exhale, slow. “It’s like a rash but it feels like my skin’s buzzing or crawling. I scratch until it bleeds sometimes. It gets worse when I don’t sleep. Which makes me scratch more. Which makes it worse.” Mateo kneels, elbows resting loosely on his thighs, eyes level with yours now. Then, finally: “Why would I treat it?” The question lands like a flat stone dropped in water, quiet ripples. You blink at him. “What?” “If it’s not life-threatening,” he says, “and it doesn’t stop you from eating or moving or talking—why would I prioritize it?” You swallow hard. “Because it hurts.” “That’s not enough.” Your jaw tightens. “It doesn’t kill me,” you mutter. “But it doesn’t let me sleep either. It makes me twitchy, makes me distracted, makes it hard to think straight. Is that enough?” Mateo’s expression doesn’t change. “I know you’re not keeping me alive out of kindness,” you add. “I get that. But if you want me to be functional, I can’t be wanting to claw at my arms all night.” That gets something—maybe a flicker of agreement. He nods once. “You think treating this will make you more useful.” “I think not treating it will make me worse. And I think you don’t like messes.” Mateo is quiet for a beat longer, then sits back slightly on his heels. “I’ll think about it,” he says. No promise. No threat. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Where does it show up?” You hesitate. “Elbows, knees or my lower back. Sometimes my scalp, if it’s bad.” He nods again and then stands. You watch his back as he moves to the door, fingers twitching against the fabric of your pants where the rash has already started to itch deep and electric beneath your skin. He pauses just before leaving. “If I get it,” he says, “you’ll only take what I give you.” [[You nod.|post_request]]

You shift your weight and try to sit up. Big mistake. The second your upper body lifts off the mattress, the world tilts—violently. A wave of heat floods your skin, followed by the cold bite of sweat across your back. Your vision fuzzes at the edges. The air thins. Your heart launches into a gallop—too fast, too loud, each beat feeling like it’s slamming directly into your throat. You open your mouth to speak. “…I need—” That’s all you get out. Then your stomach lurches. Your limbs go limp. Everything inside you twists sideways and drops. Your body gives out before any other word does. Your shoulder slams into the mattress. Then your head. You’re vaguely aware of your own legs twitching, a sound like static tearing through your ears, and the terrifying absence of breath that follows. Then black. <center>✦ ✦ ✦</center> You come back to the feeling of something cold pressed against your face. You’re flat on the mattress again. Head turned. A wet cloth against your temple. Your skin is damp with sweat, and your heart’s still pounding like a war drum Mateo’s crouched beside you with that same terrifying calm. “Don’t sit up again without permission,” he says. He glances toward the corner of the room, then back at you. “Was it the food?” he asks. “Something else?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer. His hand moves again, reaching toward your face, two fingers pressing gently just beneath your jaw. Your pulse is still erratic—fluttering like a caught moth. He frowns, just barely. You wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t already staring at him, trying to measure what kind of mood you’re about to die under. “No fever. Low blood sugar?” he murmurs, mostly to himself. Another beat. His eyes flick to yours. “What aren’t you telling me?” You blink up at him, your vision still swimming in and out of clarity. "Would you even bring me anything if I needed it?" you rasp, voice raw. "Or is that just another part of the game?" The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile. Not quite anything. “I’m not in the habit of wasting supplies,” he says simply. “But if something’s wrong, I’ll consider it.” You close your eyes for a second too long, then force them open again. “My heart—” you start, and immediately regret the way it sounds. Weak. Dramatic. But you keep going, because this is about your health. “It’s called POTS. Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome.” Mateo actually waits for you to continue. “When I sit up too fast, or stand, my heart rate spikes. The blood pools in my legs and my brain doesn’t get enough. I just... crash. I blacked out because of that.” You take a breath that feels like it has to travel uphill. “It’s not about food. Well... not //just// that. My autonomic nervous system’s messed up. It doesn’t regulate things right.” Mateo tilts his head slightly. Not disbelieving. Not sympathetic either. Just taking notes. “So this is a chronic thing,” he says. You nod. “I’m not faking it,” you add, sharper than you mean to. “I’ve had it for years. If I don’t manage it, this shit happens.” He seems to weigh the information with clinical detachment, as if he’s triaging your usefulness, your fragility and your level of upkeep. “What does management look like?” he asks. You swallow again, throat raw. “Salt, hydration, electrolytes. Beta blockers like propranolol, then fludrocortisone. Compression socks if you're generous.” That almost gets a reaction. His brow lifts—just barely. “So you’re high-maintenance,” he says, but it’s not quite cruel. “I’ll decide what you need,” he says, already moving away. “Try not to die in the meantime.” [[You roll your eyes at his response.|post_request]]

You’re alone again. The silence stretches, long and shapeless, pressing against your ears until you almost think you can hear the walls breathing. Time loses its edges. Your brain starts folding in on itself like a dying star. There’s nothing to do but lie there. Think. Rot. <<link "Scream into a pillow until your throat hurts.">> <<set $coping_method = "scream">> <<goto "coping">> <</link>> <<link "Recite Bible verses that were ingrained into your head, as much as you dislike them.">> <<set $coping_method = "prayer">> <<goto "coping">> <</link>> <<link "Mentally recite every kitchen in every apartment you've ever lived in.">> <<set $coping_method = "kitchens">> <<goto "coping">> <</link>> <<link "Plan exactly how you’d kill yourself, for the hell of it.">> <<set $coping_method = "ideation">> <<goto "coping">> <</link>>

<<if $coping_method == "scream">> You shove your face into the pillow and scream. A full fucking howl. “FUCK YOU—FUCK YOU, MATEO—YOU FUCKING SICK PIECE OF SHIT!” It tears out of you like tender muscle off bone. You don’t care how loud. You don’t care if he hears. You //hope// he hears. “YOU THINK I’M GONNA BOW DOWN ‘CAUSE YOU FED ME? FOR DOING THE BARE FUCKING MINIMUM?” Your throat’s already shredding. Doesn’t matter. You keep going, spitting it into the dark like venom. “I HOPE YOU FUCKING ROT. I HOPE YOU DIE SUFFERING. I HOPE SOMEONE PUTS YOU IN A GODDAMN CAGE AND FEEDS YOU THROUGH A FUCKING STRAW.” You slam your fists into the mattress. Once. Twice. Again. “I //HATE// YOU. I HATE THIS. FUCK—FUCK—FUCK—” You bite the pillow to muffle the rest, but it doesn’t help. Your voice breaks. Something in your ribs aches. You're choking on spit and heat and grief and it still doesn’t burn loud enough to matter. And it’s still not enough. You wipe your face on the pillowcase, but it’s soaked, sticky with snot and spit and hot breath and whatever else came out of you while you lost it. You rub harder. Your face burns. Your nose is running. Your whole body trembles like it wants to crawl out of itself and vanish between the floorboards. And then— //Click.// The sound of the door unlocking slices through the silence like a scalpel. You swipe at your face with the back of your hand and try to look like anything other than what you are: raw, wrecked and pathetic. The door creaks open.<</if>><<if $coping_method == "prayer">> You don’t believe in God. Haven’t in years. Maybe you never did, not really. But the words are still there, hardwired, fossilized and buried in your skull like old scars that didn’t fade right. Your mouth starts moving before your brain can stop it. “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void… and darkness was upon the face of the deep…” You speak slowly but without reverence. “And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.” You pause just long enough to breathe. Your mouth is dry but the rhythm keeps coming, lodged under your tongue. “And the evening and the morning were the first day. And God said, Let there be a firmament… in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. And the firmament, it—uh…” You fumble, the words blurring in your mind. “…it divided the waters which were under from the waters which were above. Or something like that.” You close your eyes and keep going. “And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day. And then there was land, and grass, and herbs… yielding seed, after their kind…” Your throat tightens. You push through it. “…and the fruit trees yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself. And God saw that it was good.” You’re not even sure what verse you’re on anymore. You stopped counting after the first “let there be.” Your voice fills the stale air with echoes from some childhood you didn’t ask for and never quite outran. “And God made two great lights. The greater light to rule the day… the lesser light to rule the night. He made the stars also.” You’re barely whispering now. “And the evening and the morning were the fourth day—” //Click.// The sound of the door unlocking slices through the silence like a scalpel. You cover your mouth like that might erase the words you were just whispering. You blink hard, trying to swallow whatever’s left behind in your throat. Guilt. Heat. Spit. Something older than any of it. The door creaks open. <</if>><<if $coping_method == "kitchens">> You talk just to hear something. Anything. Even if it’s just your own voice bouncing off the walls. “There was the one in Verdun… second floor, yeah. Ugly green tile over the sink. It always looked dirty. The fridge made that godawful buzzing sound. I slept on the couch most of the time 'cause the bedroom smelled like mold or something, I don’t know...” You pause, brow furrowing as you're picturing it. “Then that studio in Hochelaga. So fucking small and no oven. And my microwave barely fucking worked. The pipes froze during winter. Man, that //really// sucked ass.” You keep talking even if your voice has lost momentum. “Then there was Côte-des-Neiges when I lived with roomies. Victor or Vincent—whatever his name was—he left raw meat in the sink like it would just… fucking clean itself. I had to scrub it out with vinegar and hold my breath so I didn’t throw up...” You shift on the mattress. “There was that weird basement in Rosemont too. It was cold all the time, but the kitchen was… clean. I don’t know. The person before tried to take care of it. I kept it that way for a while.” You fall quiet for a second, then sigh. “And then… the one I have now in the Plateau.” You roll onto your back, staring up at the ceiling like it might give you something. “Cabinets are this nasty brown color, but the windows—man, the light in the morning is //really// nice. I never got a new couch...” You rub your face, the silence crawling back in around the edges. “I think I left the keys under the mat?” You don't know who you're even talking to. But it helps. A little. Then— //Click.// The sound of the door unlocking slices clean through whatever was left in the air. You shut your mouth. You can't move. The door creaks open. <</if>><<if $coping_method == "ideation">> You lie there a while before the thought lands. You start running through the possibilities like a to-do list. “Hanging,” you mutter, “except I don’t know how to tie a noose that actually works.” You blink at the ceiling. “Too many ways to fuck that one up and just end up brain damaged or drooling in a bed somewhere. No thanks.” You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at the corner of the room as if it has an answer. “Pills could work. Depends on the kind… Depends if he’s got anything worth a damn in this house. Knowing my luck, I’d take twenty and just puke all over myself and wake up with a lecture.” You exhale. “Slitting my wrists would be messy. And I don’t think I’ve got the follow-through. I’d hesitate. I know I would.” You go quiet for a second, then add, “Shooting myself would be the cleanest, but this isn’t America. People don’t just have a Glock lying around. Unless… Would he…?” You let the silence return, but now it’s full of something darker. And then— //Click.// The sound of the door unlocking slices clean through whatever was left in the air. You shut your mouth. You can't move. The door creaks open. <</if>> Mateo is holding a toolbox in one hand and a length of chain in the other, coiled tight, neat, not a single link tangled. It clinks softly with every step like a warning. He walks past you, sets the box down beside the wall, and kneels with a tired exhale, just one more thing on his to-do list today. “I’m replacing the restraints,” he says eventually. “The rope was temporary. This is cleaner and reliable.” He doesn’t even seem interested in whatever you just went through. It clearly doesn’t change what he came here to do. He uncoils the chain slowly, then sets the measured lengths on the floor. The metal is dark and dull. Functional. He pulls out a stud finder, runs it across the wall with methodical sweeps until it beeps, then makes a light pencil mark above the headboard. “This one’ll anchor into the stud,” he mutters more to himself than to you. “Less risk of tear-out. Keeps things simple.” He drills into the drywall with practiced hands. The whine of it cuts straight through your skull, but he doesn’t flinch. Neither do you. The bolt slides in after, then the anchor, then the first bracket. It's almost like every piece was made for this setup. “I measured the length already,” he says as he begins to thread the chain through the bracket. “You’ll be able to sit, stand, and relieve yourself. That’s all.” He picks up the cuff. It’s industrial, padded on the inside, polished on the outside, designed to hold without leaving bruises unless you’re really trying. He tightens it around your wrist, then the other. Checks the slack, then the angle. “You’ll get used to the weight,” he adds, like that’s supposed to be comforting. “It’s not heavy.” The sound of the ropes being untied is almost an afterthought. One knot, then another. They fall away from your wrists in loose coils, suddenly useless. Your arms feel light in a way that... still doesn’t feel like freedom. You blink at him, frowning slightly, your brain not quite sure what to do with the shift. Is he trusting you more? He's not showing kindness, maybe just a new version of the same problem. But still—your wrists are no longer raw. You can move your arms. A little. It’s something. Mateo doesn’t pause to explain himself. He stands, wipes drywall dust from his hands, and leaves the room for a moment. When he comes back, he’s holding what looks like a portable toilet—low to the ground and designed to make dignity optional. “Put this wherever you want it,” he says, setting it near the foot of the mattress. “You’ll need it eventually.” He places a roll of toilet paper next to it, a folded towel and then, finally, a sealed bottle of water. He sets that one down a little closer, just within reach. “I’ll bring food once I'm back from work.” That’s all he says before he picks up the toolbox, glances around to check that everything’s in place, and walks back toward the door. His eyes pass over you once. The door closes behind him. It's locked again. And you’re left in the same small room.