You sit in the oversized red chair inside the villa, arms crossed tight over your chest. The others are chatting and laughing outside, but you’ve moved away, detached from them. The skin fade feels sharp under the lights. Boss sent you to the barber two days before the flight. No more soft university hair. Just this hard, clean look.
Last year you organised this whole trip. Same group from uni. You were the one in linen shirts and chinos, talking about your graduate scheme and future plans. Polite. Ambitious. The sensible one with the spreadsheets and full sentences.
This year you’re unrecognisable.
The chain dangles around your neck. Trackies sit low on your hips, white socks pulled up, and your Nike TNs rest heavily on the tiled floor. You light another cig, taking a slow drag, the smoke curling up as you exhale. The lads keep glancing at you. You don’t care.
It wasn’t your plan to end up like this. You weren’t supposed to delete your old life, throw out your wardrobe, or let a man you met online strip away everything soft about you. But Boss didn’t ask permission. He pushed. One command at a time. Until the old you was gone.
Your words come slower now. The posh edges of your accent have dulled. When they asked what you’ve been doing, you just shrugged and muttered, “Gym. Workin’. Nothin’ much.” They laughed like it was a joke. It wasn’t.
You feel their eyes on the new you. You don’t fit anymore. One of the mentioned it earlier, concerned: “Mate… you alright? You look different.” You smirked and said, “Yeah. Better.”
A quiet thrill twists through you. Shame and heat, the way it always does now.
This is the last trip. After this weekend you’re cutting ties. Boss told you before you left: “Go see them. Let them look at what you really are. Then come home.” Home is his council flat now. No more pretending.
You take another drag, the cig hanging from your fingers, brain quiet. Last year you’d have been in the middle of them, smiling, planning next year’s reunion.
Your phone buzzes. A message from Master. You don’t need to open it to know what it says. Good lad.
You lean back in the red chair, arms crossed again, and let the silence stretch. The old friends keep talking. You’re already gone.
