Alpha Samuel and Alpha Anthony had been waiting for twenty minutes in the Director's office. The room smelled of polished oak and old leather-bound books. Samuel wore a navy blue tropical wool blazer, cream piping outlining the pockets, over pearl-gray flannel trousers with pressed creases. A fine white cotton crewneck sweater partially covered a pale yellow dress shirt whose collar peeked out slightly, and a yellow and navy striped tie was knotted in a half-Windsor at his throat. His black patent leather oxfords gleamed in the dim light.
Anthony, at his side, wore the same composition in complementary tones. Charcoal gray tropical wool blazer with subtle burgundy piping over navy blue flannel trousers. Light gray sweater molding a sage green dress shirt, with a green and burgundy striped tie. Brown aged loafers completed the relaxed yet imperial ensemble.
They had refused a reward as good alpha boys. A private double room, and permission to let their hair grow. Material privileges after seven years of exemplary transformation. The Director had been astonished.
"Why do you refuse?" he had asked.
Samuel had spoken first, his voice calm and measured. They had received letters from their families. Their respective brothers — two for Samuel, aged seventeen and eighteen, one year between them, and Anthony's fraternal twins, both eighteen — seemed lost. Skateboarding, video games, adolescent rebellion, parental disappointments. Samuel and Anthony, since arriving at eighteen, had learned order, discipline, fulfillment through submission. They asked that their brothers be admitted.
The Director had smiled. An agreement had been reached. The letters had been sent, carefully drafted. Samuel and Anthony had described a modern, tolerant academy with exceptional sports facilities, skate ramps. An absolute lie.
The brothers had taken the bait. They would arrive one week after.
On the day, Alpha Samuel and Alpha Anthony waited before the main gate, dressed in their ostentatious new outfits. Samuel wore a pink and white gingham shirt, blue and white striped bowtie, khaki trousers and brown loafers. Anthony wore the inverse version: blue and white gingham shirt, pink and white striped bowtie, same trousers and shoes. Their hair was perfectly styled in a side part, gleaming with pomade.
The dusty van arrived. Four boys in ripped jeans, untied sneakers, backwards caps got out. There was first a stunned silence. Samuel's brothers burst out laughing at this apparition — pink checkered shirt, impeccable bowtie, military-perfect haircut.
"Samuel, seriously?" spat the elder of the two, advancing with a mocking smile.
The other, the younger, imitated Samuel's rigid posture, standing on his heels, hands crossed behind his back. Anthony was greeted with the same sarcasm by his brothers, who looked at each other, exchanging knowing looks of fraternal understanding against this brother become a stranger.
Samuel and Anthony did not flinch. They kept their faces, those closed and polished faces that seven years had shaped.
"Good to see you," said Samuel, his voice without inflection. "We'll show you the academy. The gardens are remarkable."
The tour lasted an hour. The four brothers dragged their sneakers on the symmetrical paths, cast glances at the students they passed — immaculate, silent, determined — and looked at each other with growing unease. The place was clean, certainly, but oppressive. No skate ramp was visible. No teenager lingered with a phone. Just boys in pastel shirts walking straight, without speaking, without laughing.
Arrived in front of a red brick building, the brothers were led to a wooden room, clean, beds lined up and empty open wardrobes. Samuel and Anthony let them settle in, proposing they rest a little before the evening meal. The brothers collapsed on the cots, pulling out their phones, searching in vain for a signal bar. They introduced themselves to each other, two pairs who ignored their common destiny, uniting their complaints against this "rich snobs' academy." They looked through the window for a skate track, a half-pipe. Nothing but perfect lawns and hedges trimmed to a line.
The mockery flew, nervous now, less assured.
The door opened without a knock. The Director entered, tall, gray, imposing in his navy blue blazer. Behind him, six wardens with athletic postures blocked the exit.
"Good evening," he said, his grave voice filling the small room. "I am the Director. I understand you thought you were here for a visit. It was a necessary lie. Your brothers, Samuel and Anthony, suggested your candidacy. Your parents signed the entry papers this morning. You are now students of the Preppy Academy. You will remain here until your perfect transformation."
Chaos erupted. Insults flew, bodies rose. But the wardens were faster, calmer. One seized a boy by the neck and wrist, pinning him to the floor with soft and irresistible pressure, knee in his back. Another blocked a second in a standing armlock, holding him immobile without apparent effort. The third was taken by two wardens who lowered him together, gently, firmly, until his knees touched the ground. The fourth, hysterical, found himself pressed against the wall, arm twisted behind his back, until calm returned by force.
Samuel and Anthony, in the doorframe, had not moved. They watched their brothers on the ground, immobilized, terrified, and their eyes expressed only the quiet certainty that they were doing what had to be done.
The months had elapsed in a fog of transformation. The chastity cages had been placed on the second day, before the screaming and crying brothers, by silent orderlies. The correction wing had welcomed the most recalcitrant, five days of sensory deprivation, repetitive hypnosis, white noise and recorded phrases played on loop in the darkness. Physical punishments had become routine, whippings and imposed positions until muscle and will were exhausted. Psychological reinforcement operated every morning, every inspection, every gaze that demanded perfection. The brothers had learned anew to sleep, to eat, to stand, to speak, to exist under others' gaze. They had forgotten skating, games, laughter without control. They had become pupils.
A year later, the sun entered through the window of the four-bed room. The boys who woke were no longer the same. Their bodies had become lean, muscled by daily exercise, depilated according to standards. Their faces had lost acne and rebellious expressions, become smooth, closed, mastered. Their hair was cut either in a buzzcut or middle part, gleaming with pomade.
They rose in silence. None spoke. They put on the outfits prepared the night before on the chair backs, exactly as in the official photograph they were about to take. The first wore a blue and white checkered shirt, vertical navy and yellow suspenders, tailored light blue shorts and a navy bowtie with yellow stripes. The second donned a solid pink shirt, bright orange suspenders, coral shorts and a blue bowtie with discreet patterns. The third chose a pale yellow shirt, intertwined blue and yellow suspenders, matching yellow shorts and a yellow bowtie with blue stripes. The fourth, on the right, opted for a solid light blue shirt, pale pink suspenders, light blue shorts and a pink and blue striped bowtie.
They sat on their beds, hands on thighs, gaze lowered, waiting.
The warden entered at six twenty. He inspected each bed, each uniform, each posture. He stopped before each of the four, checked the haircut, the cleanliness of the shoes, the bow tie knot. He said nothing. Just a nod, and they understood they were presentable.
Later, in the afternoon, they left the dormitory in single file. They crossed the perfect gardens, walked straight to the administrative building where Samuel and Anthony waited. The two Alphas were dressed in their impeccable outfits, buttoned shirts, visible suspenders, club ties in the Academy colors. They smiled, those closed yet warm smiles.
"Your parents await news," said Samuel. "We're going to take a photo. To show them your progress."
The four brothers positioned themselves against the red brick wall, the same wall against which they had rebelled a year before. They stood straight, shoulders aligned, hands along their bodies, then raised their right arms to pose on the left one's shoulder, perfectly synchronized gesture. The smile came, identical on the four faces, empty of tension, full of that quiet submission which had replaced rebellion.
Samuel took the camera. He framed, checked the light. There were no longer Samuel and Anthony in the doorframe, just the click, just the photo.
Later, the letters went out. In each envelope, the photo and a few lines of careful handwriting, dictated by Samuel, identical in all four cases.
"Dear parents, we are happy to be here, and intend to stay as long as necessary to become as perfect as Samuel and Anthony. Respectfully, your sons."
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