choosing to be the change I want to see in the world (tumblr subculture)
Working / enslaved whumpees who do remember the lives that were taken from them.
Makeshift art, makeshift memorials, makeshift everything. Building a kind of life out of whatever they can.
A calendar, carefully kept, to mark out birthdays and anniversaries and forbidden religious dates.
Whispering while they work, the clutter and steam and noise hiding their secrets from those who spy.
Asking every new face “Is there anyone you’re looking for?” and hoping they have the answers you seek too.
Fighting to get back home, even if home is worlds away. Acts of resistance, small and large, calculated and desperate.
Fighting each other. These people have nothing in common but their opression. Someone always has privilege. The system does not want the enslaved to stand together.
Cross-cultural exchange. If the setting has institutional slavery that targets the marginalized, then any collection of whumpees would be a melting pot of languages and lived experiences.
In hiding, of course. They’re not supposed to be people. Culture of any kind is banned. But they do it anyway.
“No.” Sita said it so quietly that, for half a second, the word barely seemed to disturb the room.
They didn’t shout. They didn’t step away. They didn’t throw anything, threaten him, or give Thane a single dramatic reaction he could later reshape into evidence that they’d been unreasonable. They simply stood near the far end of the long cream-colored sofa, shoulders squared beneath a dark shirt, hands hanging loose at their sides, and refused him.
Thane stared at them from the armchair across the room.
The sitting room looked absurdly elegant around them. Warm amber lamps cast soft pools of light across polished wood and expensive upholstery. A fire burned low behind the glass fireplace screen, throwing occasional copper flickers across the framed photographs lining the mantel.
Thane appeared in several of them: Thane at premieres, Thane smiling beside actors and directors, Thane accepting an award, Thane with one hand resting possessively against Sita’s lower back while Sita wore clothes he’d chosen and an expression WRU had taught them to manufacture. Everything in the room had been selected carefully. Everything looked owned.
Thane’s surprise lasted only a moment before amusement replaced it. A slow smile spread across his face.
“You’re saying no to me?”
Sita’s expression didn’t change. “Yes.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really.”
“Yes.”
Thane settled farther back into the armchair as though the conversation had suddenly become entertaining. He’d abandoned his jacket earlier, leaving him in a pale button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. One ankle rested over the opposite knee. A crystal glass sat on the side table within easy reach, untouched for the moment, and his phone lay beside it. He looked comfortable. It was annoying.
If Thane had shouted, at least the sound would’ve acknowledged that their refusal had reached him. If he’d become furious, it would’ve meant the word had done something. Instead, he smiled at them as if they were a difficult animal making a noise he found charming.
“That’s cute.”
Sita’s jaw tightened. “I said no.”
“I heard you.”
“Then stop.”
Thane’s smile faded by a fraction. “You still think that’s how this works?”
Something cold settled low in their stomach. Thane’s expression brightened slightly, pleased that he’d finally found the nerve beneath the surface. He leaned toward the side table and picked up his phone.
Sita watched him unlock it. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“No.” Thane began scrolling. “You need reminding.”
Sita knew what he was looking for before he found it. Thane kept records of everything because possession delighted him, and documentation made possession tangible. He had copies of WRU contracts, medical authorizations, transfer records, behavioral summaries, training recommendations, medication schedules, lists of restrictions, ownership confirmations, purchase receipts, and evaluations that described Sita’s temperament, physical capabilities, medical condition, languages, obedience scores, usefulness, and supposed suitability for the person who’d eventually bought them.
The language always sounded clean. That was what Sita hated most.
WRU never wrote kidnapped. It wrote acquired. It never wrote captive. It wrote pet. It never wrote coercion. It wrote correction. It never wrote that a person had been stripped of the right to make decisions about their own life. It simply created forms with no place for that person’s decision to appear.
“There,” Thane said, turning the phone toward them.
Sita didn’t look.
“Read it.”
“No.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “There’s that word again.”
Sita stared at him.
Thane held the phone slightly higher. “Come here.”
“No.”
His expression hardened. “Sita.”
They stayed exactly where they were. The distance between them wasn’t large—a few steps, nothing Sita couldn’t cross quickly if they wanted to—but they didn’t.
Thane waited.
Sita waited longer.
Eventually, he sighed through his nose. “Fine.” His thumb moved across the screen. “I’ll read it to you.”
Sita’s stomach tightened.
Thane began halfway down the document in the calm, almost bored voice of someone reading clauses from an insurance agreement. He skipped the pieces that didn’t interest him. Transfer authorization. Owner designation. Custodial control. Medical consent authority. Behavioral management. Residential authority. Travel authorization. Financial responsibility.
The words drifted through the warm room and made something monstrous sound bureaucratic. There were no restraints in the document. No locked doors. No photographs of bruises. No needles. No record of the moment Sita had stopped remembering who they’d once been. No note explaining that the person described on the screen hadn’t volunteered for any of it. There were only numbered sections, reference codes, signatures, and crisp administrative language.
Thane looked up. “Does any of that sound familiar?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His thumb tapped the side of the phone. “So we’re getting somewhere.”
“No.”
His mouth twitched. “No?”
“No.”
Sita’s voice stayed level.
Thane frowned as though they were being intentionally obtuse. “Do you want me to simplify it for you?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m going to.”
He stood.
Sita’s body tightened automatically. The reaction was small enough that another person might’ve missed it, but Thane didn’t. He noticed everything about Sita when it could be interpreted as a response to him, and the tiny shift in their shoulders pleased him.
He crossed the room slowly. That was deliberate too. Thane always slowed down when Sita wanted distance. He turned proximity into something he could control one measured step at a time. His polished shoes made almost no sound against the thick rug. Sita watched him approach without retreating. They could’ve crossed the room before he reached them. They could’ve put the sofa between them. They could’ve left. But movement invited pursuit, and Thane loved turning pursuit into proof that Sita needed controlling.
So they stayed.
He stopped directly in front of them, close enough that Sita could smell his cologne and the glowing phone screen illuminated the underside of his jaw.
“There.” He held it between them. “Look.”
“No.”
Thane’s patience fractured slightly. “Look at the damn screen.”
Sita lowered their eyes.
The WRU logo sat near the top of the document. Black and gold. Clean. Professional. Respectable. Beneath it were identification numbers, authorization codes, dates, and classifications. Sita’s gaze found one number immediately.
363.
Something inside them tightened. They could read dozens of numbers on the page, but that one dragged their attention toward it like gravity.
Thane saw where they were looking. “There you are.”
Sita’s eyes hardened. “That’s a number.”
“It’s your designation.”
“It isn’t my name.”
Thane’s jaw tightened.
“Fine.” He scrolled. “Here.”
Another section appeared.
Registered owner-assigned name: Sita.
They stared at it. The name felt strange on the page. Too neat. Too official. A name Thane had chosen because he’d wanted something prettier than 363. Something he could call across a restaurant. Something photographers could print beneath pictures. Something that sounded like a person’s name without granting the person beneath it any actual personhood.
Thane tapped lower on the screen. “And there’s me.”
Sita’s gaze moved.
Owner of record: Thane Barlow.
His name sat there in clean black text. Not partner. Not guardian. Not emergency contact.
Owner.
The word looked obscene in the middle of such immaculate formatting.
Thane smiled. “You see?”
“Yes.”
“So explain the confusion.”
“There isn’t any.”
“You keep telling me no.”
“That isn’t confusion.”
He stared at them. Sita finally lifted their eyes from the screen.
“I understand what it says.”
“Good.”
“I’m still saying no.”
Thane gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “You really don’t understand this.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“Then why are we having this argument?”
“Because I don’t agree.”
Thane went quiet. For several seconds, he simply looked at them. Then his face softened into something patient and patronizing.
“Sita.”
They hated that tone.
“There’s nothing here for you to agree with.”
The sentence struck harder than Sita expected. Their fingers curled slightly at their sides. Thane lifted the phone between them again.
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
“I didn’t sign it.”
“WRU did.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately. No hesitation. No discomfort. No apology. WRU had signed on Sita’s behalf, and that was enough for him.
Sita looked back at the document. The signatures appeared near the bottom: Thane Barlow, a WRU representative, another authorized official. Initials stood beside several clauses, followed by dates, transaction references, and approval codes. Sita searched the page carefully, then the next one. Their eyes returned to the signatures.
“There isn’t one.”
Thane frowned. “What?”
“A place for me.” Sita pointed toward the screen. “Your signature is there.”
His eyes followed their finger.
“WRU’s is there.”
He said nothing.
“There isn’t a line for mine.”
For the first time, something uncomfortable flickered across his expression. It wasn’t guilt. Sita knew him too well to mistake it for that. It was annoyance. They’d found a detail that made his preferred story uglier when spoken aloud.
“You weren’t the purchaser.”
Sita looked at him. “I was the thing being purchased.”
His mouth tightened immediately. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Making it sound disgusting.”
Sita stared at him. “It is disgusting.”
Thane scoffed. “Everything with you has to become some moral argument.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I think buying people is wrong.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Sita didn’t move.
Thane lowered the phone. “You were trained for this.”
“I was forced.”
“You were trained.”
“Those aren’t different things.”
“They are.”
“No.”
His expression hardened. “There it is again.”
Sita’s hands slowly closed into fists. Thane noticed immediately. His gaze dropped toward them.
“Don’t.”
Sita looked at him.
He didn’t move away. That was a strange, infuriating thing.
Thane knew exactly what Sita could do to him. He’d watched demonstrations before purchasing them. He’d seen Sita throw larger men over their shoulder. He’d watched them disarm trained security staff, break holds, control joints, and put people on the ground in seconds. He knew their reflexes were faster than his. Sita could break his wrist before he finished another sentence. They could sweep his legs and put him on the carpet. They could pin him. They could walk out.
Physically, there was almost nothing stopping them.
Thane still stood within reach because physical strength wasn’t the only kind of power in the room.
There were guards downstairs, security cameras around the house, drivers who answered to Thane, and staff whose employment depended on him. There were doctors authorized to discuss Sita’s care with him, lawyers who had copies of the ownership documents, and WRU personnel who would identify Sita as escaped property if they ran. There were police who could be shown a contract and hospitals that would find Thane’s name attached to Sita’s records. A system had been built around them so thoroughly that Thane didn’t need to be physically stronger.
He only needed to be recognized.
Sita could put him on the floor. The paperwork would still say owner. They could get through the front door. The records would still say property. They could tell someone they hadn’t consented. The signatures would still exist.
Thane watched the realization settle over them. His expression softened with satisfaction.
“There.”
Sita looked at him sharply. “There what?”
“You understand now.”
“I understood before.”
“No.” He slid the phone into his pocket. “Before, you were being stubborn.”
Sita’s jaw tightened.
Thane stepped closer. “You keep acting like this is some relationship where we vote on things.”
Sita said nothing.
“It isn’t.”
“No.”
“This is ownership.”
The word dropped between them, heavy and ugly. Thane didn’t whisper it. He didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, he seemed pleased to finally strip away the softer language.
“You’re mine.”
Sita answered immediately. “No.”
His face went still. Then he smiled slowly.
“You keep saying that like repetition changes reality.”
“It doesn’t change reality.”
“Apparently you think it does.”
“It tells you what I want.”
Thane’s smile thinned. “That’s not the same thing.”
“It should be.”
“But it isn’t.”
Sita stared at him.
Thane tilted his head slightly. “According to WRU, you’re mine.”
“No.”
“According to the contract, you’re mine.”
“No.”
“According to every legal record attached to you, you’re mine.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened. “Stop.”
“No.”
The word remained quiet.
Thane stepped closer until there was barely any space left between them. “You think I’m going to stand here and let something I paid for tell me what rights I have over it?”
Silence fell.
Sita’s face emptied.
Thane froze. He’d heard himself.
Something I paid for.
It.
For one brief second, embarrassment crossed his face. Then arrogance swallowed it.
“You know what I meant.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“You called me something.”
“Sita.”
“And then you called me it.”
His eyes hardened. “Don’t twist my words.”
“I don’t have to.”
Thane exhaled sharply. “You’re impossible.”
“No.”
His mouth tightened. “There’s that word again.”
He reached toward their face. Sita turned away. His hand followed.
“Sita.”
“No.”
His fingers closed around their jaw. Not violently. He didn’t need violence every time. His grip was merely firm enough to hold their face where he wanted it, fingers pressing beneath their chin while his thumb rested against their cheek.
Sita’s shoulders locked.
Thane tipped their face upward. “Look at me.”
They resisted. Their eyes remained fixed somewhere over his shoulder.
“Sita.”
Their gaze snapped toward him. Conditioning moved faster than conscious choice.
Thane’s smile appeared instantly. “There.”
Sita hated the satisfaction in his face.
“That’s what I mean.”
Their hands tightened at their sides.
“You can complain. You can glare. You can keep saying no until you’re hoarse.” His thumb stroked once across their cheek. “But underneath all of that, you know.”
Sita stared at him. “Know what?”
“Who you belong to.”
“No.”
His fingers tightened slightly. “You’re mine.”
“No.”
“I bought you.”
“No.”
“I signed for you.”
“No.”
“I’m legally responsible for you.”
“No.”
Thane’s voice became calmer as Sita’s refusals continued.
“I decide where you live.”
Sita’s breathing changed.
“I decide when you travel.”
Their shoulders stiffened.
“I authorize your medical care.”
Their stomach sank.
“I control who gets access to you.”
Sita’s fists tightened.
“I approve your schedule.”
His gaze stayed fixed on theirs.
“I sign your paperwork.”
He leaned slightly closer. “So keep saying no if it makes you feel better.”
Sita stared at him.
“But tell me something.” Thane released their jaw and allowed his hand to fall away. Sita didn’t move. “If your no has all this power you think it has, why can’t you leave?”
The room went silent.
Sita’s eyes flicked toward the door.
It wasn’t locked. That was almost worse.
They could reach it in seconds. They could open it. They could walk down the hallway, descend the stairs, cross the foyer, and continue toward the front doors. Then security would notice. Thane would make a call. Staff would intervene. Someone would tell Sita to calm down. Someone would insist Thane only wanted to help. Someone would contact WRU. Someone would retrieve the documents. Someone would ask Thane what had happened before asking Sita.
If Sita fought their way out anyway, every record surrounding them would transform escape into theft. Thane wouldn’t become the captor. Sita would become the dangerous pet who’d gotten loose.
They looked back at him.
Thane watched their silence with growing satisfaction. “You see?”
“No.”
His eyebrows rose.
Sita’s voice stayed quiet. “I see the paperwork.”
“Yes.”
“I see what they gave you.”
“Yes.”
“I see what they took from me.”
Something in his face tightened. “That isn’t—”
“I know exactly what you’re saying.”
Thane stopped.
Sita’s hands slowly relaxed. “I know your name is on everything.”
Their voice remained steady.
“I know mine isn’t.”
He watched them.
“I know WRU says you can choose my doctors. I know they say you can choose where I live.”
Thane’s expression grew colder.
“I know you can authorize things for me without asking.”
“Sita.”
“I know.”
The word stopped him.
“I know nobody needs my signature. I know nobody asked what I wanted.”
Silence settled between them. Sita took a slow breath.
“I understand.”
Thane studied them. Then something satisfied returned to his expression.
“Good.”
Sita looked directly at him. “But I still said no.”
The satisfaction vanished.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then Thane smiled again. This smile felt different. There was no attempt at affection in it now, no indulgence, no fondness. There was only certainty.
“Fine.”
Sita’s stomach tightened.
Thane walked back toward the side table and picked up his glass. “You can say no.”
They watched him.
He took a drink. “I never said you couldn’t.”
Sita’s expression changed.
Thane lowered the glass. “You just need to understand that saying it doesn’t require me to listen.”
Sita stared at him.
There it was. Simpler than the contract. Cleaner than WRU’s language. More honest than anything written on the screen.
Their refusal wasn’t prohibited.
It was irrelevant.
They could say no, and Thane could proceed anyway. They could object, and he could overrule them. They could refuse, and he could produce documentation stating that their refusal carried no legal authority.
Sita looked around the room again. The expensive sofa. The polished floors. The framed photographs. The warm lamps. The fire glowing behind glass. Nothing here looked like a cage.
That was the point.
The bars weren’t metal. They were signatures. They were classifications. They were authorization forms, ownership statutes, medical permissions, and records that transformed Thane’s control into administrative normalcy.
Thane set his glass down. “You’ll be happier when you stop fighting facts.”
Sita looked at him. “No.”
He laughed softly and walked toward the door. His hand settled on the handle.
“You’re mine.”
This time, Sita didn’t answer.
Thane glanced back. He seemed pleased by their silence. Then he left, and the door clicked shut behind him.
Sita remained where they were. For a long moment, they looked at the empty doorway while their pulse beat hard in their throat. They could follow him. They could open the door. They could leave this room whenever they wanted. They could refuse every command he gave for the rest of the night.
None of those things altered the structure surrounding them.
If they left the house, Thane could report them. If they needed medical care, his name appeared in their records. If they tried to sign a lease, arrange travel, authorize treatment, open an account, or make any formal decision about their own life, someone could ask where their owner was.
Sita looked down at their hands.
WRU had trained those hands to fight, restrain, disarm, track, and retrieve people who ran. They’d built Sita into something physically formidable and then surrounded that body with laws designed to make strength meaningless.
Sita slowly flexed their fingers.
They could break a lock. They couldn’t break a contract by touching it. They could overpower a guard. They couldn’t physically wrest their own legal personhood back from a filing system. They could put Thane on his knees, and his name would still be written above theirs.
Sita stared at the closed door.
Their answer hadn’t changed.
No.
The word still belonged to them. Its meaning hadn’t weakened. Its truth hadn’t disappeared. But truth and power were different things.
For the first time, Sita understood that difference completely.
Their refusal mattered to them. It described the boundary they wanted. It marked the place where their will ended and Thane’s began. Legally, however, the room didn’t recognize that boundary.
WRU had built the arrangement so thoroughly that Thane didn’t have to silence Sita. He didn’t need to forbid the word. He didn’t even need to convince them that they meant yes.
He only needed a world willing to treat no as irrelevant when it came from someone classified as property.
Sita whispered it once into the empty room.
“No.”
The word sounded small against the quiet.
Nothing changed. The door stayed closed. The house remained his. The paperwork remained valid. His signature remained where theirs should’ve been.
Sita finally understood the ugliest part of what WRU had done.
They hadn’t taken away their ability to say no.
They’d taken away everyone else’s obligation to care.
something i like to try to do when i write is using sentences that feel a bit awkward, or don't sound like you'd say about a person. (because whumpee isn't one :). )
that and have them talk about themselves using words that don't really make sense for a human. adjectives that are more appropriate for an animal, verbs more appropriate for a machine etc.
He hated the obviousness of them—the blunt strip of leather, the polished buckle, the little metal ring placed at the center as though the person wearing it might need to be tethered to something. They were crude. Undignified. Too honest about what they meant.
The first time someone suggested one for Sita, they had been at the Barlow mansion for less than a week.
Their shipping crate had disappeared from the foyer almost immediately, carried away through the service corridors before any guest or visiting employee could see it. The locks had been changed. Security had received updated instructions. Thane’s personal staff had been told that Sita wasn’t ready to appear outside the house yet and that no photographs were to leave the property without approval. WRU had provided pages of restrictions disguised as transition recommendations: controlled exposure, limited visitors, reinforced commands, no uncontrolled media contact, no unsupervised access to exits, telephones, vehicles, money, or identification.
Thane had skimmed most of it.
He understood the important part.
Sita belonged to him now, but the world wasn’t allowed to see them until he had decided precisely how they would be seen.
A private stylist arrived on the fourth morning with garment bags, shoe boxes, tailoring pins, fabric swatches, and several black velvet trays of jewelry. Thane had summoned her because the clothing WRU sent with Sita offended him. Everything had been selected for utility: dark trousers, plain shirts, close-fitting training clothes, heavy boots, a weatherproof coat without a visible brand. The garments fit well enough, but they gave Sita the austere, anonymous appearance of someone meant to pass unnoticed through an airport or stand behind a more important person.
Thane didn’t want them unnoticed.
Not eventually.
For now, however, the mansion kept them hidden.
The fitting took place in the large dressing room adjoining the primary suite. Afternoon light entered through tall windows and spread across cream carpet, gilt-edged mirrors, and the polished brass rails Thane’s staff had wheeled in for the occasion. Dresses, jackets, silk shirts, structured trousers, and evening clothes hung in careful color order. Open boxes covered the central ottoman. Tissue paper rustled whenever the stylist’s assistant moved another garment aside.
Sita stood on a low fitting platform in front of the three-way mirror.
They wore a dark green shirt that had been pinned close along the waist and a pair of black trousers the tailor was still adjusting. Their bare feet remained planted precisely at the center of the platform. Their locs had been pulled over one shoulder so the stylist could examine the neckline. Their posture looked effortless until someone watched closely enough to notice the exact placement of their hands, the stillness of their shoulders, and the way their gaze tracked every person who moved behind them.
Thane had been watching closely from the beginning.
He lounged in a velvet chair with one ankle crossed over his knee, a glass of sparkling water balanced against his thigh. He had spent most of the fitting rejecting things.
“Too dull.”
“That color makes them look ill.”
“No, absolutely not. They’re not attending a funeral.”
The stylist had reminded him twice that they weren’t selecting clothes for an actual event. Sita wasn’t scheduled to leave the property. There were no premieres, interviews, dinners, or industry parties on their calendar. Thane had only smiled and said he liked being prepared.
The stylist opened another jewelry tray.
“What about something at the neck?”
Thane glanced up.
She lifted a narrow black velvet choker between two fingers. It was soft, exquisitely made, and fitted with a small antique diamond clasp.
“No.”
The answer came before she had fully raised it from the tray.
The stylist paused. “It works with the neckline.”
“It looks cheap.”
“It’s nineteenth-century French velvet.”
“It still looks cheap.”
“The clasp alone is worth nearly four thousand dollars.”
Thane laughed and raised his glass. “Then it looks expensively cheap.”
The assistant smiled because Thane had smiled first. The tailor lowered her head over the hem and pretended to be preoccupied with a pin. Sita didn’t react at all.
Their eyes stayed on the mirror.
The stylist returned the choker to its recessed place in the velvet tray. “No chokers.”
“No collars,” Thane corrected.
The room quieted for half a breath.
Someone shifted near the garment rail. A hanger clicked softly against another hanger.
Thane looked at Sita’s reflection and smiled.
“I don’t need to put a collar on them.”
The stylist gave a brief, uncertain laugh. Her assistant followed a second too late.
Thane leaned back more comfortably. “They’re not a dog.”
Sita’s eyes moved toward him in the mirror.
That was all. They didn’t turn their head. They didn’t alter their posture. Their expression remained carefully neutral, but their attention landed on him with sudden, unmistakable precision.
Thane caught it immediately.
He had known Sita for four days. That hadn’t stopped him from believing he already understood every silence, every fractional movement, every change behind their eyes.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that.”
Sita looked forward again.
His smile widened. “You know I’m joking.”
They didn’t answer.
Handler Peterson had warned him about that. Sita could speak perfectly well. They understood commands, carried conversations when required, and retained an impressive amount of general knowledge despite the identity suppression. Silence, Peterson had explained, wasn’t confusion. It was often resistance.
Thane found that fascinating when the resistance remained small enough to entertain him.
He set his glass aside and rose. The tailor stepped away from the platform before he reached it. So did the stylist. People had already begun learning how quickly the space around Sita became Thane’s whenever he entered it.
He stopped behind them and studied the mirrored view.
The shirt’s deep green brought warmth into their dark skin. The open collar revealed the elegant line of their throat and the upper edges of their collarbones. Faint marks still remained there: yellowing pressure bruises, tiny healing abrasions, traces of WRU’s final handling that makeup wouldn’t have fully concealed. Thane disliked those marks because he hadn’t put them there and because they disrupted the polished image already forming in his imagination.
Sita’s hands rested loosely at their sides. Their fingers appeared relaxed, but Thane had noticed the slight tension running through them whenever someone came close enough to touch.
He liked them like this.
Beautiful.
Controlled.
Difficult to read.
The difficulty made him feel clever. It made him feel exceptional whenever he assigned meaning to one of their silences and convinced himself he had discovered something no handler, trainer, or previous evaluator had managed to see.
“A collar would be tacky anyway,” he said. “You need something better.”
Sita said nothing.
Thane stepped onto the edge of the fitting platform and leaned close enough to kiss their temple. The contact was casual and proprietary. Sita didn’t recoil. WRU had trained that out of them too thoroughly. Only the muscle beside their jaw tightened.
Thane saw it in the mirror.
He smiled as though it were shyness.
“Something expensive,” he murmured.
Two days later, he found it.
He hadn’t gone shopping for Sita.
At least, that was what he told himself.
He had stopped at a private jewelry showroom between a meeting with his manager and an afternoon wardrobe appointment because he needed a birthday gift for a producer’s wife. The showroom occupied the silent upper floor of an unmarked building and admitted clients by appointment only. Everything inside was displayed beneath warm, flattering light. Nothing carried a visible price.
An attendant brought out diamond bracelets, vintage earrings, and a sapphire ring Thane briefly considered before losing interest. Then she opened a long black case and placed it beneath the light.
The necklace lay against pale gray suede.
Its chain consisted of narrow white-gold links, delicate without looking fragile. A dark green-black tourmaline hung at the center in a custom setting surrounded by tiny diamonds. Inside the room, the gemstone looked almost black, glossy and bottomless beneath the display lamps.
The attendant lifted it carefully toward the window.
Afternoon sun passed through the stone.
Deep green appeared inside the darkness.
Thane stopped listening to whatever she was saying.
He imagined the necklace resting in the hollow of Sita’s throat. He imagined the dark stone against their warm skin, the white gold catching beneath their collarbones, the flash of green appearing only when they stepped into the light.
He saw it so clearly that the piece already seemed misplaced inside the case.
“That one.”
The attendant smiled. “The tourmaline is exceptional. The color saturation—”
“I’ll take it.”
She paused for only a moment. “Of course.”
Thane didn’t ask the price until the necklace had been placed inside a lacquered black box and the purchase had advanced beyond the point at which an ordinary person might reconsider.
The number only improved his mood.
He carried the bag into the mansion himself that afternoon.
“Sita!”
His voice traveled through the marble foyer and rose into the open gallery above it. A housekeeper moving near the drawing room stopped and glanced toward the staircase before continuing silently through another doorway.
Thane still wore his coat. His sunglasses rested on top of his head, caught slightly in his hair, and the small black shopping bag swung from two fingers.
“Sita!”
They appeared at the upstairs railing.
Thane’s face brightened immediately.
“There you are.”
Sita stood in the upper corridor wearing one of the plain black shirts WRU had sent with them. They had rejected most of the new clothing when left to choose for themself, repeatedly returning to the garments that required no thought and attracted the least attention. Thane had decided not to object yet. He considered the behavior temporary—a remnant of institutional routine that would disappear once Sita understood the kind of life he intended to give them.
They looked down at him.
“Come here.”
Sita stayed still for a moment.
The hesitation lasted less than two seconds. WRU had built limits into their refusal. Thane had been given a list of command structures and expected responses, but he had already begun testing how little authority he needed to display before their body supplied the rest.
“Sita.”
They started down the stairs.
Thane watched every step.
He loved seeing them approach him. Even in borrowed quiet, even in the privacy of the locked mansion, they moved with a precision WRU had pressed deep into muscle memory. Their footfalls were measured and nearly soundless against the carpeted center of the stairs. Their shoulders stayed level. They didn’t touch the railing. Their gaze moved once toward the front door, once toward the hall leading to the service wing, and then settled on Thane.
He noticed the glances.
He interpreted them as alertness rather than calculation.
That pleased him too.
The training never fully left Sita. It surfaced in the way they entered rooms, chose seats, identified exits, and became abruptly still whenever an unfamiliar voice sounded nearby. Thane admired those traces without wondering what had been done to put them there.
To him, they were polish.
Expensive finishing touches on something he had bought at extraordinary cost.
Sita reached the bottom of the staircase and stopped a careful distance away.
Thane raised the bag. “I got you something.”
Their eyes dropped to it.
Their expression barely changed.
He grinned. “You could at least pretend to be excited.”
Nothing.
Thane laughed. “Fine. Don’t.”
He took out the lacquered box and put it into their hands.
Sita accepted it automatically. Their fingers adjusted to its weight, and for a moment they simply held it.
“Open it.”
They lifted the lid.
The necklace rested against black velvet. The diamonds caught the chandelier light in small, cold points, while the tourmaline remained dark at the center.
Sita looked down.
Thane watched their face so intently that he barely looked at the gift itself. He waited for surprise, admiration, pleasure—some visible confirmation that he had chosen correctly and that Sita understood the magnitude of what he was offering them.
Their thumb moved once along the edge of the box.
“Well?”
Their eyes lifted to his.
“It’s nice.”
Thane’s smile twitched. “Nice?”
A small pause followed.
“Yes.”
He laughed in disbelief. “That necklace cost more than your first car probably did.”
Sita’s attention returned to the stone.
The comment had been meaningless. Thane didn’t know whether they had ever owned a car. Sita didn’t know either. WRU had stripped away the memories that might have answered him, leaving facts without attachment and skills without context. They understood what a car cost. They understood the weight implied by the comparison. They couldn’t picture anything that had once belonged to them.
Thane leaned closer. “You really don’t care, do you?”
They didn’t answer.
Somehow, their indifference amused him once he decided it wasn’t rejection. It became another charming defect: Sita didn’t understand luxury yet. Sita wasn’t impressed by ordinary means. Sita required something more personal than money.
He took the box back. “Turn around.”
Sita went still.
Their eyes lowered toward the open case in his hands and then moved briefly toward the front door.
The locks remained engaged. A security camera rested almost invisibly in the corner above it.
Thane waited.
“Sita.”
They turned.
He stepped behind them.
Their locs covered the back of their neck. Thane gathered the heavy length into one hand and drew it over Sita’s shoulder. Several strands caught against the rough wool of their shirt before sliding free.
His fingertips brushed the nape of their neck.
Sita stiffened.
The response traveled through them in a restrained wave: shoulders narrowing, spine straightening, breath stopping somewhere high in their chest. Thane noticed. He always noticed.
He simply assigned the reaction whatever meaning suited him.
The clasp was small. He fumbled with it briefly, irritated by the mechanism, while Sita stood motionless beneath his hands. The cool white-gold chain touched the front of their throat.
Their shoulders lifted almost imperceptibly.
Thane fastened the clasp.
His fingers lingered over it after it was secure. He brushed one loc aside, then another, clearing the chain as though the placement required careful attention.
“There.”
He walked around them.
The tourmaline rested in the hollow of Sita’s throat. Against their skin, the gemstone appeared darker than it had inside the showroom, nearly black except for a narrow green gleam along one edge.
For a moment, Thane only stared.
Then delight transformed his face.
“Oh.”
Sita looked down, though the placement made the necklace difficult for them to see.
Thane smiled broadly. “That’s perfect.”
He reached up and adjusted the pendant.
It didn’t need adjusting. It already hung at the exact center of their throat. His thumb passed over the gemstone anyway, pressing it lightly against their skin before allowing it to settle.
“Come here.”
He took Sita by the forearm and guided them toward the tall mirror beside the staircase. They went without resisting. Thane arranged them in front of the glass and positioned himself behind their shoulder.
The foyer’s afternoon light reached across the floor and struck the tourmaline at an angle.
Green flashed through the black stone.
Thane touched Sita’s arm. “See that?”
Their gaze rested on the reflection. “Green.”
“Exactly.”
He looked at Sita rather than at the necklace.
“That’s why I bought it.”
Sita glanced toward him in the mirror.
Thane raised his hand and touched the gemstone again. “It looks dark until the light hits it.”
Their mouth tightened slightly.
He laughed. “That face.”
Sita looked away.
“There it is,” he said, grinning. “Exactly that face.”
Thane placed both hands on their shoulders. His fingers spread across the plain black fabric as he examined the two of them together: Sita in front, himself just behind them, his new necklace filling the bare space at their throat.
“I knew it would suit you.”
They didn’t answer.
He kissed the side of their head. “Keep it on.”
Their eyes returned to the mirror.
“Sita.”
A faint pause.
“Okay.”
His smile returned immediately. “Good.”
For the rest of the afternoon, the necklace appeared whenever Thane happened to look for Sita.
They wore it while sitting stiffly at the far end of the drawing-room sofa, a book open in their hands. They wore it when a staff member brought coffee and paused long enough to admire the stone. They wore it at dinner beneath the low amber chandelier, where the diamonds sparked whenever they turned their head. They wore it when Thane called them into his study for no reason beyond wanting them within sight while he reviewed a script.
The public didn’t see them.
Not yet.
The mansion did.
Housekeepers saw the necklace when they entered to refresh a room. Security personnel noticed it when Sita passed the station near the rear corridor. Thane’s manager saw it during her next visit and recognized immediately that she was expected to comment.
“That’s beautiful.”
Thane looked up from his phone. “Isn’t it?”
His manager directed her smile toward Sita. “It suits you.”
Sita gave one small nod.
Thane answered for them. “I bought it.”
“I assumed you had.”
His grin widened.
The compliment pleased him more than it pleased the person wearing the necklace. Sita stood beside the window, their eyes moving occasionally toward the grounds beyond the glass. The lawns sloped away toward a high stone wall partially concealed by trees. Cameras watched the gates. Two security vehicles remained parked near the drive.
Thane didn’t notice where they were looking.
His attention remained fixed on the dark stone at their throat.
The following morning, Sita came down without it.
Thane sat at the breakfast table in a white robe, scrolling through messages while a television played silently on the far wall. A tray of fruit, toast, eggs, and coffee covered the polished surface. He looked up when Sita entered.
His gaze went to their throat immediately.
Bare skin showed above the collar of their shirt.
“Where’s the necklace?”
Sita stopped several steps from the table.
“Upstairs.”
“Why?”
They glanced toward the place setting prepared for them. “I took it off.”
Thane waited for more.
None came.
He set down his phone. “Why?”
Sita’s shoulders shifted in a restrained approximation of a shrug.
Thane frowned. “Is something wrong with it?”
“No.”
“Did the clasp break?”
“No.”
“Then why aren’t you wearing it?”
They didn’t answer.
The housekeeper pouring coffee went still for an instant before carefully setting the silver pot down. Thane glanced at her.
“Can you give us a minute?”
“Of course, Mr. Barlow.”
She left without looking at Sita. The dining-room doors closed softly behind her.
Thane leaned back in his chair. “What?”
Sita remained silent.
“You’re doing that thing.”
Their eyebrows moved slightly.
“You know exactly what thing.”
Nothing.
Thane pushed his chair away from the table and stood. He approached them slowly, his eyes fixed on the unadorned hollow of their throat.
There was nothing objectively wrong with the absence.
Sita looked severe and self-contained in the plain clothes, their locs hanging loose around their shoulders. Before he had bought the necklace, he would have considered the bare skin elegant.
Now they looked unfinished.
The realization came quickly, accompanied by an irritation he didn’t bother questioning. The tourmaline had occupied that place for less than a day, yet its absence felt deliberate. Sita had removed something he had chosen, something he had fastened around their neck with his own hands.
He reached toward them.
Sita stepped back.
His hand stopped in midair.
For a second, neither of them moved.
The room seemed suddenly larger in the silence. Beyond the windows, a groundskeeper’s machine hummed faintly across the lawn. Somewhere near the kitchen, metal struck metal and then went quiet.
Thane stared at Sita.
They looked back at him with their chin lowered slightly and their weight balanced over both feet. It wasn’t an overtly defensive position. WRU had trained them too well for that. It looked almost neutral.
Thane had already seen enough controlled violence during the demonstrations at the facility to understand what that neutrality could contain.
Slowly, he lowered his hand.
“I was just looking.”
Sita’s jaw tightened.
He exhaled. “Jesus, Sita.”
Their shoulders drew closer.
Thane noticed the shift. His irritation softened at once into practiced gentleness—not because he understood their fear, but because he preferred himself when he could imagine he was soothing it.
“Hey.”
They didn’t move.
“I’m not mad.”
Sita’s eyes stayed on him.
Thane smiled faintly. “I just like the necklace.”
Silence.
“I bought it for you.”
Still nothing.
He stepped closer, this time moving slowly enough that they could watch every inch of the approach. Sita didn’t retreat again.
Thane touched the bare hollow of their throat with one finger.
Their breath stopped.
“You don’t have to wear it every second,” he said.
His fingertip traced a short path above their collar before withdrawing. The gesture appeared tender. That was how he understood it.
“Wear whatever you want.”
Sita watched him for several seconds.
Then they moved past him and took their place at the breakfast table.
Thane turned to follow them with his eyes.
His expression changed when their back faced him.
He didn’t like the bare skin.
He didn’t like that they had taken off something he had decided belonged there. He liked even less that they had stepped away from his hand, forcing him to recognize—even briefly—that the necklace might feel different from the inside than it looked from where he stood.
But he had told them they could wear whatever they wanted.
He couldn’t demand that they retrieve it now. Not without turning a beautiful gift into something cruder.
Not without making the ownership ugly.
Thane hated ugly ownership.
He returned to his chair and summoned the housekeeper with the small brass call button beside his plate. When she entered, he resumed talking as though nothing had happened. He asked Sita what they wanted to do that afternoon despite knowing there were almost no acceptable answers. They couldn’t leave the grounds. They couldn’t use the pool without supervision. They couldn’t enter the security office, the garages, the staff wing, or the rooms where Thane kept private paperwork. Visitors required his approval. Any activity involving a telephone or computer would be monitored.
Sita looked down at the untouched food on their plate.
“Read.”
Thane smiled. “Of course you do.”
He interpreted their limited options as preference.
By late afternoon, the necklace still hadn’t reappeared.
Thane told himself it didn’t matter.
He took a call in his study. He reviewed scheduling proposals with his manager. He discussed when Sita might be ready for their first controlled public appearance and rejected every date she offered as too soon, not because he worried about Sita’s adjustment but because he hadn’t settled on the introduction he wanted.
“No interviews yet,” he said, pacing beside his desk. “Maybe photographs first.”
“Official portraits?”
“Something less formal.”
“Taken here?”
He looked through the open study doors.
Sita sat in the adjoining library, visible between two shelves. They had folded themself into the corner of a deep leather chair with a book resting against one knee. The late sunlight warmed the side of their face.
Their throat remained bare.
“Here,” Thane said. “We control everything that leaves the house.”
His manager made a note. “Wardrobe?”
“I’ll decide.”
“We should probably avoid anything that looks too staged. The public doesn’t know much about them yet.”
“They will.”
She glanced up from her tablet but didn’t comment.
After the meeting, Thane remained downstairs while security prepared the dining room for a small private gathering. The guests weren’t members of the press. They were friends, an executive from the studio, his current director, and two people Thane had decided were trustworthy enough to meet Sita before the official introduction. Everyone had signed confidentiality agreements. Phones would be collected at the door. The evening was supposed to be intimate.
For Sita, it would be the first roomful of strangers since leaving WRU.
Thane considered that fact only in terms of presentation.
He stood in the foyer adjusting his cuffs while staff finished setting the table. He checked the time. He looked toward the staircase.
Nothing.
He checked his reflection in the hall mirror. His dark suit fit perfectly. He brushed one invisible piece of lint from the lapel.
Footsteps sounded overhead.
Thane looked up.
Sita appeared at the top of the stairs.
They wore a black suit the tailor had finished that morning. The jacket narrowed cleanly at the waist, and the shirt beneath it carried a muted green sheen whenever they moved. Their locs had been drawn partially away from their face and secured at the back, leaving the line of their neck exposed.
The tourmaline rested at their throat.
Thane’s whole expression brightened.
He couldn’t hide it.
“There it is.”
Sita stopped on the first step.
They had chosen the necklace before coming downstairs—or perhaps they had calculated that Thane’s guests would make the evening difficult enough without allowing his displeasure to become another variable. Perhaps they had remembered the empty reach of his hand at breakfast. Perhaps they had understood that “wear whatever you want” meant only that Thane wanted the appearance of having given them a choice.
Thane didn’t ask.
He waited at the bottom of the staircase while they descended.
When Sita reached him, he stepped close and immediately touched the gemstone. His thumb moved across its polished surface with slow satisfaction.
“I missed this.”
Sita looked at him.
Thane laughed softly. “I know. Dramatic.”
They didn’t answer.
He adjusted the pendant.
It was already centered.
He slipped two fingers beneath the chain and shifted it fractionally to one side before putting it back. That hadn’t needed correcting either. His knuckles brushed Sita’s throat.
Their body went very still.
Thane smiled.
“Perfect.”
He stepped away to admire them. His gaze traveled over the fitted suit, the carefully arranged hair, and the dark stone placed exactly where he wanted it.
Sita’s face gave him nothing.
Thane didn’t need it to.
He supplied the emotion himself.
He decided they had put on the necklace because they knew how much he loved it. He decided that meant affection. He decided compliance counted as choice so long as he never said aloud what would happen if they refused.
The first guests arrived fifteen minutes later.
Thane kept Sita beside him in the foyer. His hand rested against the small of their back while introductions were made. When someone offered Sita a hand, they looked first at Thane. The glance lasted only an instant, but he noticed it and felt an almost giddy rush of satisfaction.
“This is Sita,” he said.
Not my pet. Not 363. Not anything so crude.
Just Sita, spoken with the warm pride of a man unveiling a private treasure.
The director noticed the necklace first.
“That stone is extraordinary.”
Thane’s hand moved from Sita’s back to the pendant as naturally as if the compliment had been directed toward something he wore himself.
“Black tourmaline,” he said. “Well, green-black. It changes in the light.”
“It suits them.”
“I know.”
Sita remained quiet.
During dinner, the guests asked questions carefully. How were they finding Los Angeles? Had they seen much of the city? What did they enjoy doing? Thane answered whenever Sita paused for more than a second.
“They haven’t been out much yet.”
“They’re still settling in.”
“They read constantly.”
“They’re shy.”
Sita wasn’t shy.
They watched each speaker with calm, unnerving focus. Their attention marked the locations of doors, windows, security personnel, and improvised weapons with the same trained efficiency they used to follow conversation. They ate little. They never allowed their glass to remain outside their sight. They kept their back away from the room’s two entrances.
Thane saw only mystery.
Whenever the necklace shifted, he reached over and put it back.
His fingers touched the chain while he spoke. His thumb brushed the gemstone when he laughed. Once, while the studio executive described an upcoming project, Thane slid two fingers beneath the white gold and held them there for several seconds, his knuckles resting against the pulse in Sita’s throat.
The gesture drew no alarm.
It was too gentle.
Too casual.
Too beautiful.
The executive smiled at them both as though she were witnessing affection.
Sita sat motionless until Thane let go.
Later, the photographer Thane had hired for “private household documentation” took a handful of pictures in the drawing room. They weren’t intended for immediate release. Thane wanted options for the eventual announcement, and he wanted to see how Sita responded to a camera before placing them in front of the press.
The photographer arranged them beside the fireplace.
Sita’s first posture was too rigid.
“Relax your shoulders,” the photographer said.
They obeyed at once.
“Chin slightly down.”
They adjusted.
“Turn toward Mr. Barlow.”
Sita turned.
The commands sank into them with frightening ease. WRU had trained them to accommodate observation, to change expression and posture on cue, to present whatever version of themself an owner wanted strangers to receive.
Thane stepped beside them and placed his arm around their waist.
The camera flashed.
Sita’s expression softened into something distant and composed. Their mouth curved just enough to suggest serenity without becoming a full smile. The tourmaline absorbed most of the light, then answered the next flash with a sudden green gleam.
Thane saw it.
His grin widened.
“There,” he said. “Did you get that?”
The photographer checked the screen. “I did.”
“Show me.”
Thane crossed the room before she could raise the camera properly. He examined the image.
Sita stood beside him beneath the golden drawing-room lights, beautiful and unreadable. His arm encircled their waist. The necklace occupied the exact center of the photograph, dark against their throat.
“Oh, that’s good.”
Sita remained near the fireplace.
Thane beckoned. “Come look.”
They approached.
He enlarged the image and pointed to the stone. “See?”
Sita looked at the screen.
“It caught the light,” he said.
A small nod.
Thane smiled as if they had praised his taste extensively. “I knew it would.”
He approved the photograph for his private archive.
It would remain inside the mansion for now. Sita would remain inside the mansion too, moving between rooms under the eyes of staff and cameras, wearing a necklace the public had not yet learned to recognize.
But Thane could already imagine what came next.
The first official photograph.
The first premiere after WRU and his team agreed that Sita was ready.
The first fashion account identifying the designer.
The first article calling the necklace a favorite.
He imagined it appearing again and again—at dinners, premieres, interviews, studio events, charity galas. He imagined strangers asking whether it meant something. He imagined answering before Sita could.
He would say it did now.
That night, after the guests had left and staff cleared the last glasses from the drawing room, Sita reached for the clasp.
Thane noticed from across the room.
“Leave it.”
Their hand stopped behind their neck.
He approached them with his jacket unbuttoned and satisfaction still warming his face. “Just for tonight.”
Sita lowered their arm.
Thane smiled. “Thank you.”
He touched the pendant one final time.
The tourmaline had warmed against their skin. He pressed his thumb over it, feeling the faint beat beneath the chain.
Thane had never put Sita in a collar.
Collars were crude. They belonged to people without imagination or taste. They showed the restraint too plainly and invited everyone who saw it to understand exactly what it meant.
Thane preferred white gold.
Diamonds.
A gemstone so dark it appeared black until bright light revealed the green sealed inside.
He preferred something beautiful enough that nobody would question why Sita wore it. Something expensive enough that removing it could be interpreted as ingratitude. Something delicate enough that he could touch it constantly without anyone recognizing the gesture as possession.
The world hadn’t seen it yet.
It hadn’t seen Sita yet.
For now, the necklace existed only within the locked mansion, witnessed by employees who understood which observations to keep to themselves and guests who had surrendered their phones at the door. It rested against Sita’s throat while they studied the security cameras, measured the distance to the nearest exit, and learned the invisible boundaries of Thane’s house.
Soon, however, Thane would place them in front of cameras.
He would choose the clothes. He would arrange the photographs. He would fasten the necklace at their throat before bringing them outside. Then he would repeat the image until the rest of the world learned to expect the stone there.
He didn’t need leather.
He didn’t need a buckle.
He didn’t need a tag engraved with his name.
He only needed something recognizable.
Something beautiful sitting exactly where a collar would’ve been.
When Sita finally lifted their eyes to him, their expression remained unreadable. Thane smiled with the delighted satisfaction of someone seeing his favorite possession exactly where he had left it.
White glare flooded through the narrow gap above them, cutting across the dark interior and catching on the plastic restraints around their wrists. The air outside smelled cold and artificial—lemon polish, filtered air, expensive flowers that had been cut before they could wilt naturally. Beneath it lingered cardboard, adhesive, and the faint chemical sweetness of the sedative WRU had used for transport.
Someone peeled the top panels apart.
“There they are.”
Thane Barlow’s voice was familiar.
Sita had heard it through theater speakers, televisions mounted in WRU common areas, promotional clips played by handlers who thought celebrity ownership should impress them. His voice was lower in person and less carefully shaped, but the warmth was identical. Practiced. Intimate enough to make strangers feel selected.
He leaned over the opening.
His face appeared upside down against the bright ceiling: styled dark hair, pleased eyes, a smile arranged for an audience that wasn’t there.
“Welcome home.”
Sita didn’t answer.
The restraints at their wrists had rubbed the skin raw during transit. Their knees were cramped against their chest. One foot had gone numb hours ago. They couldn’t feel the abrasion itself, but they could see the damp red crescent beneath the plastic and knew it would need to be cleaned.
A WRU delivery employee reached into the box.
Sita moved before the man touched them.
Their shoulder struck the side hard enough to shift the container across the polished floor. One of the nearby staff inhaled sharply. The delivery employee withdrew his hand and glanced toward Thane, waiting for permission to respond.
Thane laughed, delighted.
“Oh, they weren’t exaggerating.”
He crouched beside the box. His shirt was pale and soft-looking, sleeves folded neatly to his elbows. No tie. No visible weapon. A silver watch sat against the inside of his wrist, positioned so its face wouldn’t catch the cameras.
There were cameras.
One above the door, hidden in the dark glass of what looked like a motion sensor. Another inside the smoke detector. A third reflected faintly in the mirrored cabinet behind him.
Sita counted them before they looked at Thane again.
“The restraints can come off,” he said.
The delivery employee hesitated. “Mr. Barlow, the transfer protocol recommends—”
“I’ve read the protocol.”
His smile didn’t shift, but the room did.
The employee lowered his eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
The plastic was cut away. Blood returned to Sita’s foot in a slow, useless pressure. They climbed out without assistance, one hand braced against the box wall until their balance stabilized.
They were barefoot.
The floor beneath them was cream-colored stone veined with gray. Marble, probably. Slippery when wet. Hard enough to break teeth against. The room had two visible doors, one disguised door set into the paneling, and three tall windows overlooking a courtyard.
The windows didn’t open.
Sita checked before anyone told them not to.
Their fingers found no latch. The panes were too thick for ordinary residential glass, and the corners held faint distortions where reinforced layers met. Outside, clipped hedges bordered a tiled path. Beyond them stood a wall covered in flowering vines.
Eight feet high. Possibly more. No neighboring roofs were visible.
Thane rose behind them. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Sita watched the reflection in the glass instead of turning.
Two WRU employees.
Three house staff.
One security officer dressed like household personnel.
Thane.
The security officer carried his weight slightly forward and kept his right hand clear of his jacket. The woman nearest the interior door wore a communication wire behind her ear. Another employee had a ring of keys hidden beneath the fold of her cardigan, the metal outline visible against the fabric.
“Yes,” Sita said.
Thane’s eyebrows lifted.
It was the first word they had given him.
He looked absurdly pleased to receive it.
“I knew you’d appreciate it.”
Sita hadn’t said that.
The delivery documents were transferred at the long table behind them. No one asked for Sita’s signature. The papers made soft, precise sounds as they were turned, initialed, and stacked.
One WRU employee recited care instructions as if discussing an expensive animal.
Hydration monitoring.
Temperature regulation.
Restricted medications.
Behavioral escalation procedures.
Approved disciplinary tools.
The recommendation that the new owner avoid allowing the asset to establish control over food, sleeping locations, or household movement during the first adjustment period.
Thane listened with his arms folded and his head slightly tilted, attentive enough to appear responsible.
Sita stopped listening to the words and memorized the route the housekeeper took when she left.
Through the paneled door.
Left after twelve steps.
A service corridor, judging by the change in acoustics.
The door closed slowly enough for Sita to see gray tile, a utility cart, and a red EXIT sign reflected in stainless steel.
That route led somewhere staff weren’t expected to admire.
Useful.
Thane signed the final page.
The pen had been set out for him.
The box remained open behind Sita, their designation printed across one side in black:
363
ROMANTIC / RETRIEVAL SPECIALIST
HANDLE WITH CAUTION
Below that, in smaller lettering:
PROPERTY OF THANE BARLOW
Thane noticed them looking.
“I hate that wording,” he said.
Sita turned their head.
He handed the pen back to the WRU employee. “It’s so clinical.”
No one removed the label.
The delivery team departed through the main entrance. The security officer followed them to the door, watched until their vehicle passed beyond the gate, then entered a code into a wall panel.
Six digits.
Sita caught four.
The lock engaged with a heavy internal click.
Thane exhaled as though the tedious part of the day had ended.
“Well,” he said. “Now that it’s just us.”
It wasn’t.
The house staff remained against the wall. The security officer returned to his position. Someone was watching through every concealed lens.
Thane stepped closer and extended his hand.
Sita looked at it.
He waited.
The gesture was constructed to resemble an introduction between equals. The room’s silence made clear that refusal would be recorded.
Sita placed their hand in his.
His grip was gentle but that meant nothing.
“I’m Thane.”
“I know.”
His mouth twitched with amusement. “Of course you do.”
He held their hand a moment longer than necessary, thumb resting over the pulse in their wrist. Sita let him feel its steady rhythm.
Then he released them.
“Come on. Let me show you your new home.”
The tour began with the entrance hall.
Thane described the mosaic floor as Italian and the chandelier as Venetian. He mentioned the architect’s name. He explained that the house had belonged to a silent-film producer before it was renovated and that one of the columns had been imported whole because he’d refused to let the contractors cut it.
Sita counted doors.
The main entrance required a code from inside and a biometric scan from outside. A smaller door near the coatroom had no visible alarm panel, but the frame was thicker than the surrounding walls. The hallway to the east curved out of sight, limiting visibility from the foyer. The western corridor contained two cameras and a pressure sensor beneath the runner.
Thane told them the runner had been handwoven.
He showed them the living room next.
It was vast and pale, furnished with low cream sofas no one looked comfortable enough to use. The windows faced the courtyard. Books had been arranged by color instead of subject. A grand piano stood beneath framed photographs of Thane at premieres, award ceremonies, charity dinners, and red carpets.
In several of them, he had one arm around someone who’d been cropped carefully out of the display.
“You can sit wherever you like,” he said.
Sita looked at the sofas.
One had a folded cashmere blanket placed at its center. Another held an open script, reading glasses, and a ceramic cup on a tray. The third was unoccupied but positioned directly beneath a camera.
Wherever they liked.
Provided they chose correctly.
Thane continued into the dining room.
The table could seat fourteen. There were only two place settings.
One chair stood at the head.
The other had been placed halfway down the table, far enough away that conversation would require raised voices. The remaining chairs rested flush against the table, their placements so exact that moving one would be immediately visible.
“We don’t have to be formal when it’s just us,” Thane said. “I want you to feel comfortable.”
Sita examined the doors.
One to the kitchen.
One to the hall.
One narrow service entrance with a keypad mounted on the opposite side.
“You’ll eat with me unless I’m working late,” he added. “If I am, staff will bring something to your room.”
They entered the kitchen.
Warm air brushed Sita’s face. The ovens were running, and the room smelled of browned butter, garlic, citrus, and meat. Copper pans hung above a central island. Knives rested on a magnetic strip near the prep area.
Sita counted eleven.
The chef saw them looking and shifted his body slightly, blocking the nearest handle.
Thane didn’t appear to notice.
“You can ask for anything you want,” he said. “Within reason.”
The refrigerator had a digital lock.
The pantry door required a key.
A smaller beverage refrigerator stood beneath the counter, stocked with bottled water, juice, wine, and medication disguised among supplements.
Sita recognized two WRU labels.
Thane moved on before they could read them.
The library occupied the rear corner of the first floor.
This room was darker than the others, the walls lined with shelves that reached the ceiling. Here, the books had been arranged properly. History. Biography. Theater. Politics. French literature in one section near the window.
Sita’s attention caught there despite themself.
Dumas.
Several editions.
Old bindings. Gold lettering. One copy of The Count of Monte Cristo displayed face-out inside a glass cabinet.
Thane watched them notice.
“I had them bring those in for you.”
Sita looked at him.
He smiled.
“I read your profile.”
Their profile. Their education, languages, preferences, tolerances, habits, punishments, and measurable reactions compressed into pages ansold with them.
Thane crossed to the cabinet and unlocked it with a key from his pocket. He removed the book carefully, checking its spine before holding it out.
“A first edition,” he said. “French.”
Sita accepted it.
The weight settled into their hands with immediate familiarity. Paper, leather, dust, glue. The smell reached them when they opened the cover.
A book was a book even inside a cage.
“You can read anything in here,” Thane said.
Sita glanced at the locked cabinet.
His smile widened.
“Anything that isn’t fragile.”
He took the book back before Sita had turned the first page.
“I’ll have someone bring you a newer copy.”
The cabinet clicked shut.Thane walked away with the key still in his hand.
The upstairs staircase divided at a landing beneath another chandelier. A narrow corridor continued behind it toward the service rooms. A velvet rope had been stretched between two brass hooks across that passage.
Not locked but still forbidden.
Thane took the left staircase.
“Guest rooms are on this side. My office is at the end of the hall. You’re not allowed in there unless I invite you.”
The directness almost felt cleaner.
“Why?” Sita asked.
He looked back at them, one hand resting on the banister.
“Privacy.”
Sita considered the cameras mounted along the ceiling.
“Yours.”A pause.
Then Thane laughed softly. “You’re very quick.”
He resumed walking.
The first guest room contained yellow curtains and untouched furniture. The second smelled faintly of bleach. The third was locked.
Sita slowed beside it.
Thane continued another two steps before realizing they were no longer following.
“What’s in there?” they asked.
“Storage.”
The door had three separate locks.
One dead bolt.
One keypad.
One mechanical keyway was installed lower than standard height.
No dust beneath the threshold.
Sita looked at the camera above it.
Thane’s voice remained light. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
That meant it mattered.
They followed him.
His bedroom occupied the entire western side of the house.
He opened the double doors but didn’t enter, leaving Sita at the threshold beside him.
A low bed faced wide windows overlooking the pool. Clothing had been arranged over an upholstered bench as though someone had prepared the room for a photograph. A door near the headboard led to a bathroom. Another opened into a dressing room.
A third door had no handle on this side.
“You can come in when I’m here,” Thane said. “Never when I’m not.”
Sita studied the handleless door.
“Where does that go?”
“My private hall.”
“Where does the hall go?”
His eyes settled on them.
The smile stayed, but its meaning changed.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“They gave you my file.”
“They did.”
“Then you knew that.”
He held their gaze for several seconds.
“I knew,” he said.
They continued.
Thane showed Sita the screening room, the gym, the pool, and the terrace. He described each space as though gifting it to them.
They could watch anything they wanted, but the system required his account.
They could use the gym whenever they liked, but not without staff nearby.
They could swim, but the terrace doors remained locked unless he opened them.
They could sit outside, but the grounds beyond the pool were monitored.
They could walk through the garden, but not approach the perimeter wall.
They could speak to household staff, but they weren’t to interfere with anyone’s work.
They could ask for food, clothing, books, music, art supplies, or entertainment.
They couldn’t use a phone. They couldn’t access the internet alone. They couldn’t receive mail. They couldn’t open the front door. They couldn’t leave the property.
Thane never presented the restrictions together. He tucked each one inside a kindness. The house is yours, but—
Take anything you need, except—
Go anywhere you like, as long as—
By the time they reached the final hallway, the map had formed behind Sita’s eyes.
Main entrance: coded, reinforced, continuously monitored.
Kitchen service route: likely connected to delivery access.
Garage: west side, below grade, alarmed.
Garden wall: too high to climb without equipment, possible blind section near the cypress trees.
Staff changeover: uncertain.
Security patrol: one visible officer, likely more off-site or stationed near the gate.
Cameras: twenty-three confirmed, at least six probable.
Locked rooms: five.
Useful objects: knives in kitchen, fire extinguisher beside screening room, bronze sculpture in library, fireplace tools in living room, weights in gym.
Possible exits: main door, kitchen delivery entrance, garage, terrace, second-floor service stairs, roof access.
No immediate route had a high chance of success.
That didn’t mean none existed.
Thane stopped in front of a white door.
“And this,” he said, “is yours.”
He opened it.
The room had been prepared around information from Sita’s file.
The walls were green, though not a green they would’ve chosen. Clothing filled half the wardrobe, all in their measurements. Several books had been stacked beside the bed. A carafe of water waited on the table. The windows overlooked the inner courtyard instead of the street.
There was no visible lock on the inside of the door.
There was one on the outside.
The bed was large and carefully made. A folded set of sleep clothes rested at its foot
Sita entered without touching it.
The room had two cameras.
One above the door. One concealed inside the television.
The bathroom door had been removed from its hinges. The shower walls were glass. The medicine cabinet was locked.
Thane came in behind them.
“Do you like it?”
Sita crossed to the window. Reinforced glass. Sealed. Courtyard below. A decorative ledge wide enough for one foot, but no external drainpipe within reach.
“Someone chose it,” they said.
“I did.”
“Yes.”
He waited for praise.
Sita gave him none.
Thane walked to the bed.
“I thought we’d start with something simple.”
Sita looked at him.
“Simple for whom?”
His expression remained pleasant, but the silence around it hardened.
“For both of us,” he said. “I don’t intend to make this difficult.”
Sita understood the sentence exactly as he meant it.
Difficulty was something they would create.
Punishment would be something he regretted having to do.
The house would remain beautiful through all of it.
Sita tracked his steps, his balance, the distance to his throat, the camera above the door, and the security officer who had appeared silently in the hallway.
He stopped within reach.
“You’re safe here,” he said.
Sita looked past him at the open bedroom door.
At the officer.
At the lock mounted on the exterior.
At the beautiful hallway they could enter only under supervision. The beautiful library whose books could be touched only after permission. The beautiful terrace sealed behind reinforced glass. The beautiful dining table where their assigned chair already waited.
They stood still because movement without purpose wasted information.
The floor was padded. The walls were bare except for a mirror, a camera, and a steel cabinet with its doors locked. A drain sat beneath the center of the room. There were no weapons laid out. No marked targets. No other trainees waiting to spar.
There was only a man strapped upright to a reinforced chair.
363 stopped in the doorway.
Peterson’s hand settled between their shoulder blades.
“Inside.”
They stepped forward.
The man in the chair wore gray facility clothing. His wrists were secured to the armrests, but the restraints weren’t tight. He looked bored rather than frightened. A thin wire ran beneath his shirt and connected to a monitor beside the wall.
Heart rate.
Breathing.
Blood pressure.
There were adhesive sensors at his throat and temples.
363 studied all of it before looking at his face.
He smiled at them.
It wasn’t a kind smile.
“Is this the difficult one?” he asked.
Peterson closed the door. “This is 363.”
“I thought they’d be bigger.”
363 was taller than both of them.
Peterson glanced at the camera. “Size isn’t the relevant variable.”
The lock engaged behind her.
363 turned their head toward the sound.
“Eyes here,” Peterson said.
They looked at her.
She had changed out of her usual black uniform jacket. Her sleeves were rolled neatly to her elbows. She carried a tablet against her chest and wore the patient expression she used when 363 was taking too long to understand something obvious.
“This is an advanced service module,” she said. “Your prospective owner requested it specifically.”
Prospective owner.
The phrase made something cold move through 363’s stomach.
They had heard staff discussing the actor again that morning. Thane Barlow. Wealthy. Famous. Interested.
Peterson had corrected them twice during presentation drills because their expression hadn’t appeared grateful enough.
“What service?” 363 asked.
The man in the chair laughed softly.
Peterson didn’t.
“Pain service.”
363 looked at the monitor. Then at the restraints. Then at the drain.
“You said pain doesn’t improve compliance.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You said damage reduces value.”
“It does.”
“You said—”
“I know what I said.” Peterson’s voice remained calm. “This isn’t punishment. It isn’t interrogation. It isn’t combat. The objective isn’t compliance.”
“What is the objective?”
“Pleasure.”
363 stilled.
The man smiled again.
“There it is,” he said. “That little confused look.”
Peterson tapped the tablet. “The client has indicated an interest in controlled violence. You’re going to learn how to provide it safely.”
363 stared at her.
The words fit together grammatically. They didn’t make sense.
“You want me to hurt him.”
“Yes.”
“He hasn’t attacked me.”
“That isn’t relevant.”
“He hasn’t threatened you.”
“Also irrelevant.”
“He doesn’t need to be retrieved.”
“No.”
The man shifted in the chair, testing the restraints as though settling into a comfortable position.
Peterson stepped closer to 363.
“This is Romantic training,” she said.
“No.”
The answer left them before they could stop it.
Peterson’s face changed only slightly.
Not anger. Not yet.
A warning.
363 corrected their posture.
“This doesn’t resemble Romantic training,” they said.
“You have a very limited understanding of what owners may find romantic.”
“He’s restrained.”
“At his request.”
“He can’t withdraw.”
“He can. There’s a release beneath his right hand.”
363 looked.
A small button sat beneath the man’s fingers.
“He also has a verbal stop command,” Peterson continued. “You will stop immediately when he uses it. Until then, you follow instructions.”
“Whose instructions?”
“Mine today. Your owner’s later.”
The cold feeling spread higher.
Their prospective owner had requested this.
He had looked through their classifications, their physical evaluations, their behavioral records. He had watched them demonstrate how quickly they could put a handler on the floor.
Then he had paid WRU to make that violence useful to him.
Peterson opened the steel cabinet.
Inside were several neatly arranged objects.
A leather strap.
A short riding crop.
Lengths of soft rope.
Medical shears.
Disinfectant.
Gauze.
A collection of narrow implements whose purpose 363 didn’t immediately recognize.
She placed the handle across their palm and folded their fingers around it. The grip was textured. The object was light enough that they could barely feel its weight.
“You’ve been trained to incapacitate,” Peterson said. “That means your instincts are wrong for this exercise. An owner who asks to be hurt usually doesn’t want to be permanently damaged.”
“Usually?”
“Preferences vary.”
She repositioned 363’s wrist.
“You’ll need to understand anatomy more precisely. Places that create sensation without compromising function. Places that bruise attractively. Places that bleed dramatically without becoming medically dangerous.”
363’s fingers tightened around the handle.
Peterson noticed.
“Relax your grip.”
They did.
“This requires trust,” she said.
The man in the chair gave another quiet laugh.
363 looked at him. “He doesn’t trust me.”
“He trusts the facility.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” Peterson agreed. “It isn’t.”
For one moment, something in her expression almost resembled approval.
Then she pointed toward the man’s thigh.
“Strike here.”
363 didn’t move.
Peterson indicated the location again.
“Outer thigh. Moderate force.”
“What measurement is moderate?”
“You’ve struck hundreds of targets.”
“Targets don’t give inconsistent definitions.”
The man’s smile widened.
“I like them.”
Peterson ignored him. “Thirty percent of the force you’d use during a takedown.”
“That could fracture—”
“Not with the crop. Not at that angle. Not in that location.”
363 looked at the man.
He was watching them eagerly.
That made it worse.
During combat training, fear made sense. Resistance made sense. A target tried to get away. A target protected vulnerable areas. A target wanted the violence to end.
This man leaned toward it.
“Strike,” Peterson said.
363 lifted the crop.
The movement was clean. Controlled. Identical to the beginning of several disarming techniques.
They brought it down against the man’s thigh.
The crack echoed through the room.
He inhaled sharply.
363 stepped back.
The monitor accelerated.
Peterson looked at the readings. “Good placement. Too cautious.”
“He reacted.”
“That was the intention.”
“He’s injured.”
The man rolled his eyes. “Barely.”
363 stared at him.
A red line had already appeared across the gray fabric covering his leg.
Their own skin didn’t warn them properly when it was damaged. Blood, swelling, loss of function—those were reliable. Pain wasn’t.
They’d spent months being taught that other bodies were different. More fragile. Governed by alarms 363 didn’t possess.
Now Peterson was telling them to set those alarms off deliberately.
“Again,” she said.
363 didn’t raise the crop.
Peterson moved beside them.
“What happens when an owner gives you a command?”
“I obey.”
“What happens when the command causes harm?”
363 remained silent.
Peterson waited.
There was an answer. There was always an answer.
The rules were supposed to fit together.
Obedience preserved safety.
Damage reduced value.
A Romantic provided pleasure.
A Guard Dog prevented harm.
But this command used harm to provide pleasure. Refusing would be disobedience. Obeying would violate another rule.
363 looked toward the locked door.
Peterson’s voice softened.
“The owner defines harm.”
Their attention returned to her.
“If he asks for it,” she continued, “and you provide exactly what he asks for, you haven’t harmed him. You’ve served him.”
“That changes nothing physically.”
“It changes everything that matters.”
The man shifted in the restraints. “Can we continue?”
Peterson held out her hand.
For a moment, 363 thought she meant to take the crop back.
Instead she touched two fingers to the inside of their wrist.
A small contact.
Gentle.
Their muscles loosened before they could stop them.
Peterson felt it happen.
“Again,” she said.
363 struck him.
Harder this time.
The man gasped. His head fell back. The monitor sounded a single warning before stabilizing.
Peterson smiled.
“There. Better.”
363 lowered the crop.
“Again.”
They obeyed.
“Same location.”
They obeyed.
“Now the opposite leg.”
They obeyed.
“Watch his breathing.”
They watched.
“Watch his hands. Some people say yes after their body has begun saying no.”
363 looked at the fingers curled around the armrest.
“What do I follow?”
“The owner’s words.”
“You said to watch his body.”
“You watch it so you can adjust.”
“But I continue.”
“Unless he gives the stop command.”
The man’s breathing came faster now. His face had gone red. Sweat gathered near his hairline.
363 smelled it.
They heard every shallow breath and every small movement of the restraints.
Peterson directed them through changes in angle and force. She made them repeat strikes until the marks appeared symmetrical. She corrected their stance when they positioned themself as though expecting an attack.
“He isn’t your opponent,” she said.
363 looked at the man’s face.
“What is he?”
“Your responsibility.”
The words landed more heavily than the crop.
Peterson eventually took the instrument away.
The man sagged in the chair, breathing hard but smiling.
“Excellent,” he said. “A little clinical, but that can be trained out.”
363 looked at the red marks across his clothing.
“Did I perform correctly?”
The question was for Peterson.
The man answered instead.
“You could look like you enjoy it.”
363’s eyes moved to him.
His smile faltered.
Peterson noticed that too.
“That’s the next part,” she said.
She opened the restraints and helped the man stand. He stretched, winced, and gave 363 an approving look before leaving through the side door.
He wasn’t afraid of them.
He should have been.
Peterson locked the cabinet again.
“You frightened him at the end,” she said.
“He requested pain.”
“He didn’t request to believe you might kill him.”
“I didn’t threaten him.”
“You looked at him as though you were calculating how.”
363 said nothing.
Because they had been.
Not with intention.
With habit.
Peterson walked to the mirror and beckoned them forward.
“Come here.”
M
363 stood beside her.
Their reflection held the same expression they wore after combat assessments: shoulders squared, mouth neutral, eyes focused.
Blood had dried beneath one thumbnail. They couldn’t remember when the skin had split.
Peterson reached up and touched the corner of their mouth.
“An owner like Mr. Barlow won’t only want the physical act,” she said. “He’ll want a response from you. Interest. Enjoyment. Perhaps affection.”
“I don’t enjoy it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“He’ll know.”
“Only if you fail.”
Peterson turned them toward the mirror.
“Smile.”
363 looked at their reflection.
They thought of the man’s pulse climbing. His breath catching. The red line rising beneath the fabric.
They thought of Thane Barlow watching from a private observation room or receiving the footage later.
Recognition and admiration are different.
So were obedience and desire.
But WRU had never cared about differences an owner couldn’t see.
363 smiled.
It looked wrong.
Peterson adjusted their chin.
“Too much teeth.”
They tried again.
“Not pleased with yourself. Pleased with him.”
363 changed the expression.
“Warmer.”
They changed it again.
Peterson watched the mirror.
“There.”
363 held the smile.
“What am I supposed to be thinking?”
“That he trusted you with something intimate.”
“He was restrained.”
“At his request.”
“He was monitored.”
“For safety.”
“He was paid.”
Peterson’s gaze sharpened.
“That won’t always be true.”
The smile slipped from 363’s face.
Peterson turned them away from the mirror.
“Mr. Barlow has paid a substantial additional fee for this training. He doesn’t want an ordinary Romantic. He wants someone dangerous enough to hurt him and disciplined enough to stop.”
363 looked at the locked cabinet.
“And if he doesn’t tell me to stop?”
“Then you continue.”
“Even if his body can’t?”
“You’ll be trained to recognize the threshold.”
“And if he asks me to cross it?”
Peterson studied them for a long moment.
Then she placed the crop back into their hand.
“You’ll learn what your owner means when he asks.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you need.”
She returned to the center of the room and opened a file on her tablet.
A diagram of the human body appeared, divided into colored regions.
Green.
Yellow.
Red.
Areas where bruising would be temporary. Areas where sensation could be intensified. Areas where a mistake could cause disability, organ damage, or death.
Peterson enlarged the image.
“Lesson one,” she said. “Violence is service.”
363 looked down at the crop in their hand.
The room still resembled a combat studio.
The padding.
The camera.
The drain.
But combat training had taught them how to survive another person’s violence.
This was different.
This was teaching them how to make violence look like love.
Peterson tapped the green section of the diagram.
“Repeat it.”
363’s mouth felt dry.
“Violence is service.”
“The owner defines harm.”
“The owner defines harm.”
“Obedience proves affection.”
363 stared at the diagram.
Peterson waited.
They knew what happened when they made her wait too long.
“Obedience proves affection.”
“Refusal is betrayal.”
The crop rested lightly against their palm.
They imagined breaking it.
They imagined the cabinet door bending beneath their hands. The camera coming loose from the wall. The lock failing. The corridor opening.
The thoughts came without names attached to them.
Peterson stepped closer.
“Refusal is betrayal, 363.”
They looked at their reflection in the mirror.
Then they repeated the lesson until Peterson believed them.
Peterson stood close to 363’s right shoulder, near enough that they could feel the quiet authority of her presence without looking at her. She didn’t touch them. She didn’t need to. The memory of her hand at the back of their neck remained vivid enough to function in its absence.
Across the table, Thane turned the tablet faceup again.
“Sit.”
363 looked toward Peterson.
The movement was small, but Thane noticed it. His gaze followed theirs to the handler and sharpened when Peterson gave a single, deliberate nod.
363 pulled out the chair and sat across from him. They placed their feet flat against the floor and rested their hands loosely in their lap. Their posture remained straight without appearing rigid. Their expression held the controlled warmth Peterson had ordered them to maintain.
Thane lowered his attention to the purchasing file.
He reviewed it without speaking.
The silence stretched.
The fluorescent lights emitted a thin, ceaseless buzz above them. Air hissed through the ventilation system, carrying the facility’s familiar mixture of disinfectant, cold metal, synthetic fabric, and something faintly medicinal. 363 heard the ventilation cycle change once, the ducts giving a hollow metallic shudder before settling into a quieter hum. Then they heard it change a second time.
Peterson remained motionless behind them.
Thane scrolled slowly, reading each section with more care than the executives had expected him to give it. His finger paused over medical warnings, moved through behavioral assessments, and lingered on a series of disciplinary notations. Several lines had been condensed into sanitized language.
Resistance during processing.
Aggression under restraint.
Persistent identity-seeking behavior.
Failure to display appropriate gratitude following corrective intervention.
363 recognized the phrases without remembering every incident that had produced them. WRU documentation had a way of turning blood into behavior and fear into noncompliance.
Thane’s finger moved again.
The screen changed.
A red banner stretched across the top of the file.
RESTRICTED INTAKE DOCUMENTATION.
A smaller warning beneath it identified the contents as confidential even within WRU. Access required executive authorization, placement-level clearance, or legal necessity. Someone had already entered the correct credentials on Thane’s behalf.
363 saw the text upside down from across the table.
The headings appeared first.
Country of origin.
Family information.
Academic records.
Known associates.
Acquisition rationale.
Suppression status.
Then they saw the name.
SITA-BLESSING KANDE.
The letters meant nothing.
They remained dark shapes arranged against a pale screen. The hyphen separated the first two words cleanly. The surname sat beneath them in capital letters. The name looked deliberate. It looked as though someone had chosen it, written it on documents, spoken it in rooms, and expected a particular person to answer.
No recognition followed.
Thane read further.
Something in his expression changed, heightened interest. The private curiosity that had animated him during the combat demonstration returned. He glanced at 363 and then looked back at the screen.
“What was done to their memory?”
Peterson’s expression remained professionally neutral.
“Standard identity suppression.”
Thane looked up. “How much was removed?”
“Autobiographical attachment. Family recognition. Place-based personal history. Most emotionally anchored associations.”
“That sounds less like suppression and more like erasure.”
“It’s the terminology used in their treatment record.”
“I’m not asking what the record calls it.”
Peterson regarded him steadily. “The distinction isn’t relevant to placement.”
Thane’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s relevant to me.”
The ventilation hummed above them.
363 kept their attention on the red banner at the top of the screen.
“How much do they remember?” Thane asked.
“Semantic and procedural retention remained largely intact. Language, general knowledge, motor skills, learned associations, professional concepts, and selected cultural material survived treatment. Personal attachment to that information did not.”
“But they remember language.”
“Yes.”
“Films.”
“Yes.”
“Historical fiction.”
“In fragments. The subject retained an unusual amount of literary information.”
“They,” Thane corrected.
Peterson paused.
It lasted less than a second.
“They retained an unusual amount of literary information,” she said.
Thane looked at 363 again.
“They know me, but not themself.”
“They know their function.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“No.”
Peterson offered nothing more.
Thane returned to the file. He read the name again, silently this time. His thumb rested beside it as if he could feel something through the glass that 363 couldn’t.
Then he rotated the tablet.
The screen faced them.
“Read that.”
363 looked at the line he indicated.
“Sita-Blessing Kande.”
Their voice remained steady. They pronounced each syllable correctly, guided by linguistic instinct rather than recognition.
Thane watched their face instead of the screen.
“Does it mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“No.”
“Look at it again.”
363 did.
SITA-BLESSING KANDE.
The first name contained two parts. The second looked French, though that didn’t make it familiar. The surname followed a sound pattern they associated with West Africa. Beneath the name, the file listed Côte d’Ivoire as their country of origin.
They knew where Côte d’Ivoire was.
They knew its borders, its capital, its official language, its colonial history, and several major cities. They could describe the climate and identify regional trade routes. They remembered the smell of cocoa but couldn’t place the memory. They knew how rain sounded against a corrugated roof, though they didn’t know which roof had taught them.
They didn’t remember living there.
They didn’t remember belonging anywhere.
Thane searched their face as if he expected recognition to surface slowly, a drowned thing rising through dark water.
363 allowed him to look.
“Is it a person?” he asked.
“I assume so.”
“It’s you.”
363 looked at the name again.
They waited.
They didn’t know what they expected. Perhaps the letters would rearrange themselves into something meaningful. Perhaps a voice would call the name from somewhere beyond the room. Perhaps they would remember turning toward it.
They searched for a kitchen, a bedroom, a lecture hall, a street. They searched for hands braiding or washing their hair. A document signed with that name. A parent using it in anger. A friend shortening it affectionately. A stranger reading it from an attendance sheet.
They searched for grief and found no one to mourn.
They searched for fear and found only the facility.
Nothing came.
The name remained a collection of letters printed beneath a warning banner. Whatever life had once answered to it had been severed from them so completely that even seeing the wound didn’t make it ache.
363 lifted their gaze.
“I’m 363.”
“That’s a product number.”
“It’s what I’m called.”
“It’s what they call you.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make it your name.”
363 considered the distinction. “It identifies me accurately within the facility.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
Thane leaned forward, resting one forearm against the edge of the table.
“What if I called you Sita?”
363 looked at him.
His expression had become intent. This wasn’t an abstract question. He was trying the possibility against them, testing how it felt to possess information the facility had deliberately kept beyond their reach.
“Then Sita would be what you called me.”
The focused stillness returned at once.
363 had seen it during the combat demonstration, when the baton stopped less than an inch from the security employee’s throat. They’d seen it when they mapped the room aloud and admitted that they’d already considered every visible exit.
Thane became still when something interested him enough to eclipse his performance.
“You wouldn’t object?” he asked.
“Would it matter?”
“To me.”
“Then you’ve answered your own question.”
Peterson’s gaze snapped toward them.
The warning in it arrived hard and immediate.
Thane laughed.
The sound broke through the sterile quiet of the room. He didn’t appear insulted. He looked almost exhilarated, as though 363 had offered precisely the resistance Peterson had warned him about and confirmed that it remained intact.
He glanced at the handler. “That’s the behavior you intend to remove?”
“It’s one example.”
“I like it.”
“It becomes less entertaining when directed at an owner in public.”
“I didn’t say I wanted entertainment.”
Peterson’s mouth tightened slightly.
Thane looked at 363 again.
“Do you know what admiration is?”
“Yes.”
“Describe it.”
“A favorable judgment that may include respect, approval, fascination, or awe.”
“That sounds clinical.”
“It’s accurate.”
“Can you imitate it?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
363 adjusted their expression.
The transformation began with their breathing. They drew in a small, involuntary-sounding breath, as though Thane’s attention had caught them unprepared. Their eyes lifted fully to his face. They widened them by a carefully measured degree and allowed a flicker of wonder to cross their features before suppressing it beneath apparent self-consciousness.
Their lips parted.
Their shoulders softened.
They looked at him as though they’d admired him from a distance for years and couldn’t quite believe he had chosen to sit across from them. They looked affected by his presence, flattered by his attention, and embarrassed by the depth of their own response.
Nothing inside them changed.
Thane stared.
For several seconds, he didn’t speak. The expression he wore suggested that he understood the display was manufactured and still felt its effect.
“Stop.”
The admiration disappeared.
363’s face returned to controlled attentiveness without any visible transition between the two.
Thane sat back.
“And affection?”
“Yes.”
“You can imitate that too?”
“Yes.”
“What does it look like?”
“That depends upon the person observing it.”
“And what they want to see?”
“Yes.”
“Desire?”
Peterson intervened before 363 could answer.
“Those demonstrations are conducted under separate conditions.”
Thane turned his head slowly toward her.
“I didn’t ask for a demonstration.”
“You’re evaluating Romantic classification. The distinction should remain clear.”
“I’m asking whether they can fake it.”
363 answered before Peterson could.
“Yes.”
Thane’s eyes returned to them.
“How?”
“Breathing. Eye contact. Pupil response can sometimes be influenced through lighting or medication. Posture. Proximity. Changes in vocal tone. Physical responsiveness. The observer’s expectations provide the rest.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward Peterson. “You taught them to say that?”
“No.”
Peterson’s response came too quickly.
363 kept their hands still in their lap.
Thane leaned forward again.
“How would I know the difference?”
“You might not.”
“Could you?”
363 considered the question more carefully.
They knew the difference between an expression they’d selected and one produced without instruction. They knew when their breathing changed because Peterson had given a command and when it changed because someone’s hand had closed around their throat. They knew fear even when they weren’t permitted to display it.
They weren’t certain how much remained beyond that.
“Sometimes,” they said.
“Would you tell me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether I was permitted.”
His fingers tapped once against the glass screen.
He wasn’t smiling now. He looked thoughtful, although the thought didn’t appear to trouble him. He seemed fascinated by the possibility that 363 could perform an emotion so convincingly that he might never know whether it existed.
Peterson crossed her arms.
“Mr. Barlow, 363’s oppositional responses have been reduced but not entirely extinguished. The remaining behavior can be corrected during the ownership transition. Some clients prefer a more complete obedience profile.”
“I don’t.”
Peterson cocked her head.
It was the first time her posture had betrayed genuine surprise.
Thane looked again at the restricted file.
“Sita,” he said.
363 waited.
The name moved through the room without finding anything inside them to catch upon.
Thane said it a second time, more softly.
“Sita.”
He gave the word an intimacy it hadn’t earned. He shaped it as if he’d known them before the facility, as though it belonged to a private history shared between them instead of a restricted document he’d been authorized to purchase.
363 understood that he expected a reaction.
There wasn’t one to give him.
“Yes?”
His pupils widened slightly.
Peterson watched him recognize what he had obtained before the contract had even been signed.
Not a person recovering their name.
Not a lost identity returning at the sound of itself.
Not Sita-Blessing Kande reaching through the damage WRU had done and recognizing the person who remained.
A secret.
A private piece of information he could use before anyone else. A word buried beneath layers of confidentiality that he could lift from the file, place around 363’s throat, and call intimacy.
“What do you think of it?” Thane asked.
“The name?”
“Yes.”
“It’s more efficient than 363.”
“Efficient?”
“It has two syllables instead of three.”
He smiled. “Do you like it?”
363 looked down at the screen again.
SITA-BLESSING KANDE.
“I don’t know what liking a name is supposed to feel like.”
For one moment, something almost human crossed Thane’s face.
Not compassion.
Not horror at what had been taken.
Wonder.
He looked at 363 the way someone might look at an elaborate machine after discovering a hidden compartment. The damage interested him because it made them unusual. Their absence of recognition didn’t make him grieve for the person they’d been. It gave him space to define the person they would become.
Then possession settled over his features.
“I’ll call you Sita.”
The declaration required no agreement.
He didn’t ask whether they wanted the name returned. He didn’t ask whether hearing it from a stranger felt invasive. He simply claimed the right to choose which identity they would answer to.
363 lowered their eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
Peterson exhaled quietly through her nose. Relief softened the tension around her mouth. Whatever boundary 363 had approached with their answers, they’d stepped back from it in time.
Thane rotated the tablet toward himself and returned to the purchasing profile.
The questions became practical.
He asked about transportation restrictions first. Peterson explained that 363 would travel in a secured WRU vehicle with medical monitoring, physical restraints available but not visible, and two transition specialists assigned until delivery was complete. Thane objected to the possibility of staff arriving at his primary residence in marked uniforms. Peterson assured him that every employee involved would wear civilian clothing and use an unregistered service entrance.
He asked about medical maintenance.
363’s temperature required routine monitoring. Their skin needed regular inspection. Injuries could go unnoticed without visual examinations. Hydration had to be enforced during travel, physical training, outdoor events, and prolonged exposure to studio lighting. Any unexplained change in gait, movement, appetite, balance, or behavior required immediate investigation.
“Because they can’t tell me when they’re hurt,” Thane said.
“They can identify dysfunction,” Peterson replied. “They simply won’t experience pain as an early warning.”
“So I’ll have to look.”
“Yes.”
Thane glanced toward the bruise darkening along 363’s forearm.
His gaze lingered.
He asked about security requirements, acclimation schedules, household staffing, and confidentiality provisions. He wanted to know how frequently WRU would send an evaluator. He asked whether he could refuse those visits and appeared irritated when Peterson told him they were contractually required during the first year.
He wanted assurances that no former trainer, medical employee, or administrative worker could discuss the placement.
The confidentiality officer would explain the relevant protections, Peterson said.
Thane wanted more than protections.
He wanted every existing photograph sealed. He wanted the demonstration footage moved from the standard WRU archive into a privately restricted file. He wanted confirmation that no other potential buyer had received a complete profile. He wanted the names of everyone who had viewed the intake documentation.
Peterson answered each demand without visible hesitation.
363 listened as their existence became a matter of image rights, nondisclosure clauses, medical liability, and access permissions.
Thane asked whether they could attend premieres.
“Yes.”
Whether they could endure extended photography.
“With temperature controls and scheduled breaks.”
Whether they could travel internationally.”
“With advance medical clearance and documentation identifying them as your registered companion.”
Whether customs officials would ask questions.
“Not if the documentation is prepared correctly.”
Whether they could be trusted near reporters.
“363 has completed media-response conditioning. They can redirect direct questions, repeat an approved account of their background, identify recording devices, and recognize common extraction tactics used by journalists.”
Thane looked amused by the phrasing. “Extraction tactics?”
“Attempts to obtain unapproved information.”
“Could they lie convincingly?”
“Yes.”
“Even under pressure?”
“Yes.”
He looked at 363 while Peterson answered.
“Could they learn a role?”
“Any role,” Peterson said.
Something pleased and predatory entered his expression.
He asked about their defiance last.
“Can you remove it?”
Peterson’s shoulders straightened. The question restored her confidence. This was familiar ground—correction, adjustment, elimination.
“Yes.”
363 kept their face calm.
They didn’t turn toward her. They didn’t look at the device fixed to her belt or imagine the separate rooms where ownership-transition conditioning took place. They didn’t let their fingers curl together beneath the table.
Peterson continued, “The remaining oppositional behaviors respond to consistent correction. We’d recommend an additional four-to-six-week transition program before delivery. That would reduce unsolicited speech, eliminate hesitation before owner-directed commands, and establish a more reliable attachment profile.”
Thane glanced at the file.
Then he looked at the fading bruise on 363’s forearm.
“No,” he said. “Don’t.”
Peterson’s expression barely changed, but the silence that followed revealed her uncertainty.
“You should understand that uncontrolled resistance may create liability.”
“I don’t want it uncontrolled.”
“Then what do you want?”
Thane smiled at 363.
“I want it visible.”
Peterson studied him.
“Visible resistance can be misinterpreted by the public.”
“Not resistance,” he said. “Danger.”
He stood.
The chair slid quietly across the floor behind him. He walked around the table with the unhurried assurance of someone who already regarded every object in the room as temporarily his.
363 remained seated.
Thane stopped beside them and rested one hand against the back of their chair. His body entered their peripheral vision. The scent of mint and expensive cologne settled closer.
“I want people to look at them and wonder,” he said.
Peterson’s attention shifted fully to him.
“I want them to know Sita could hurt someone.”
He lifted one of 363’s locs from their shoulder and let the heavy length slide between his fingers. The touch remained careful, almost reverent. It would’ve looked affectionate to anyone who didn’t understand that he hadn’t asked permission.
“But won’t.”
363 stared straight ahead.
Thane brushed the loc behind their shoulder.
“Because I’m there.”
The meaning settled into the room.
He didn’t want obedience that made them look harmless. He wanted danger displayed like another expensive accessory. He wanted strangers to recognize the strength in their hands, the watchfulness in their eyes, and the possibility of violence in their stillness.
Then he wanted those strangers to see that all of it belonged to him.
Peterson’s expression smoothed into professional understanding.
“That can be arranged.”
“We’ll need something for public appearances,” Thane continued. “Not submissive. Not exactly.”
“Devoted protection.”
“Possessive.”
“Attentive.”
“Dangerous enough to be interesting.”
“Controlled enough to be reassuring.”
His smile widened. “Exactly.”
Thane’s hand settled briefly at the base of 363’s neck.
The contact remained light.
363 felt pressure.
Nothing more.
Their body catalogued the placement of his thumb, the reach of his fingers, the angle of his wrist, and how quickly they could’ve removed the hand.
They remained still.
“Good,” he said.
The purchasing contract took less than twenty minutes.
The executives returned wearing new smiles, their earlier caution replaced by carefully concealed excitement.
One carried the revised contract. The other brought a black case containing a fountain pen, embossed documents, and the physical authorization token required for a private placement of this value.
The confidentiality officer resumed his place near the wall and verified each signature.
No one asked 363 to sign anything and no line had been prepared for them.
The transfer amount appeared briefly on the tablet. It contained more digits than the standard figures listed in their placement file. Then the number vanished beneath confirmation screens, financial authorizations, privacy clauses, and biometric verification.
Peterson stood beside 363 throughout the process.
Her posture remained formal, but satisfaction had begun to warm her face. This contract validated every report she’d written, every correction she’d administered, and every warning from staff members who’d suggested 363 would never become commercially viable.
Thane signed with a black fountain pen.
He wrote his name in a large, practiced hand, the same signature that appeared on posters, photographs, charity auction items, and studio contracts. The ink shone wetly for a moment before sinking into the paper.
The confidentiality officer collected the page and checked it.
The final authorization appeared on the tablet.
PLACEMENT APPROVED.
OWNERSHIP TRANSFER PENDING DELIVERY.
Thane capped the pen.
Then he looked toward 363.
“Sita.”
363 raised their head.
“Come here.”
They stood and crossed the short distance between them.
Every person in the room watched.
“Position one.”
363 lowered themself to their knees at his feet.
Their trousers tightened across their legs as they settled onto the gray mat. They straightened their back and placed their hands loosely on their thighs. Their face remained angled downward until he instructed otherwise.
Thane placed two fingers beneath their chin.
He tilted their face upward.
363 allowed their gaze to meet his and gave him the expression Peterson had taught them in the Lounge.
Open.
Alive.
Willing.
Warmth softened their eyes. Trust loosened their mouth. A suggestion of awe entered their face, restrained by devotion rather than fear. They looked as though kneeling before Thane had fulfilled a private hope they’d never dared express.
He looked down at them as though he’d discovered something rare instead of purchasing something stolen.
“There,” he said quietly. “That’s better.”
Peterson smiled.
Pride warmed her face.
Not affection.
Achievement.
363 had passed every test she’d given them.
They’d learned to fight without striking too far. To identify weakness without appearing eager to exploit it. To kneel without looking defeated. To submit without revealing disgust. To smile without feeling safe. To imitate admiration for a man they didn’t respect and affection for a stranger who had just bought the right to control them.
They’d learned to look at a buyer as though captivity were a future they desired.
Peterson had taken the facility’s most difficult trainee and made them valuable enough for a famous man to choose.
She mistook the sale for proof that she had won.
363 remained on their knees while the executives congratulated her.
They praised the quality of the presentation, the sophistication of the dual classification, and the extraordinary placement value she’d secured. One executive told her that the purchase would reflect extremely well on her department. Another suggested that 363’s training profile could become a model for future crossover candidates, provided the more volatile details remained confidential.
Above them, Thane discussed private transportation and the timing of delivery.
He didn’t want a box brought through the front entrance. Too many staff members might see it. He wanted the delivery made after dark, through the service wing, with household security cleared in advance. He asked how quickly the appropriate wardrobe could be prepared and whether 363 could arrive dressed for presentation rather than transport.
Peterson assured him that every detail could be accommodated.
Thane called them Sita twice more before leaving.
The first time, he used the name to summon their attention while asking Peterson whether their locs required specialized care.
363 answered.
The second time, he spoke it from the doorway.
“Sita.”
They looked up.
Thane smiled as though the response belonged to him already.
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then he stepped into the corridor, surrounded by executives and confidentiality staff. The reinforced door closed behind him with a heavy mechanical click.
CW: Discussion of Alzheimers and Dementia, Whumpers' Point of view, Emotional whump, multiple whimpers implied child neglect, Pet whump, nonhuman whumpers, multiple whumpers
Word count: 2178
Elise never thought that she would live to see a day where she would dread talking to Maya.
Yet, there she was, sitting across from her closest friend with a sense of overwhelming dread from simply being asked if she was okay. She had answered yes, automatically, of course. Despite this, it was clearly a bluff.
Elise was, though she hated to admit it, not okay. For several reasons—most of which were too recent, too personal, to speak on, simply too close to the surface of her thoughts to put into words.— Part of it was because Maya realized this. Of course she did, either because she was uncannily observant as always, or Elise could never keep anything hidden for long. Both were viable options, and both ideas made Elise’s skin crawl and writhe at the unsettling vulnerability of being noticed.
“Hey,” Maya began as she rested her hand on the table, “how long have we been friends?” Elise’s mind faltered at the question, suddenly faced with the notion that she could not recall when they had first met —Elise was certain It was during college, but the exact moment they had become part of each other's lives was lost to her— “So, you can tell me about anything.” Maya continued once it was clear that Elise’s silence was silence was an answer of its own.
Elise nodded because, logically, it was true. She could tell Maya anything, but the idea in itself sat like a stone in her gut. Speaking what was on her mind would make it realized, casting it in the intruding spotlight of someone else’s knowledge, the very idea sparked her nerves alight like coals and it took everything within her to not coldly reject, to just get up and leave it be. Elise took a shuddering breath, glancing down at her hands that were shaking in her lap. When had she begun to shake? She placed her hands on the tabletop, forcing her palms flat on the table despite immediately being hyperaware of Maya’s gaze.
Why did she think of things this way? What part of her saw a friend’s invitation to help, and twisted it into an interrogation? Elise forced a breath and glanced up at the chime of a bell that announced a new customer. Looking up at Maya, showed a patient, gentle expression. Elise glanced away, tracing the tattoo of a rabbit silhouetted mid-leap that adorned her left wrist. A symbol of risk, of not knowing where you would land, something to encapsulate the uncertain anxiety that had no proper name. So Elise focused on the symbol as she steadied her breath and silently willed herself to speak.
“It’s Yeay…” Elise heard herself saying despite the tightness in her throat. “My grandmother.”
Maya looked up from her tea, brown eyes lit with worry, her hand steady on the table cloth. “Is she alright, falls can be hard with her age.”
“Broken wrist.” She winced through gritted teeth, watching as Maya worried her bottom lip, “But, recovering, yeah…” Elise nodded, trying not to sound dismissive. Eighty-six, it is a pretty rough age to fall. Though, Elise supposed falling at any age was difficult. Suddenly desperate to do something with her hands, she blindly reached for something to top her bread with, unthinkingly grabbing a small packet of grape jam.
“They scanned her.” Elise continued, opening the packet and spreading the jam on the bread with trembling movements, “At the hospital, the doctors scanned her for a brain injury.” Elise took a small bite of her bread, the cheap jam turned a sickly sweet on her tongue, she hoped it would ease her nerves. It did not. “They, the doctors, did other tests as well, because she hit her head…”
Silence settled between them, Maya’s hand inched closer to hers. Elise curled her empty hand into a fist, nails biting into the flesh of her palm.
It was quiet then, only the faint music from the jukebox and the far off clatter of dishes into a metal sink. Elise breathed in, swallowed her guilt and breathed out as she unfurled her hand, allowing her tanned fingers to brush against the edge of Maya’s own.
“It’s Alzheimer's." Elise forced out her breath catching, “Moderate stage, but they caught it early.”
“Elise, I’m so sorry.” Maya breathed out, a sigh thick with sympathy.
“I-” Elise stumbled. She stumbled because, though it was gradual, Yeay was dying. Yeay, the woman who built a beautiful life after immigrating from her home country, who passed down her recipes from memory alone, who recounted stories of her life in Suong over evenings of learning embroidery. Who held her granddaughter with the same hands that comforted her own daughter so long ago.
“I should have known.” She whispered, trying to ignore how her voice shook. “I visit her every week. How…” How could she not have realized? The symptoms were not just present, they were glaringly obvious. The misplaced items, forgotten words, the evenings Elise and her mother spent helping Yeay track her finances.
“It’s not your fault.” Maya placed her hand on Elise’s, palm brushing against the metal of her rings. “She never complains about anything, she would never tell you herself.”
“She shouldn’t have to.” Elise looked up, locking eyes with Maya only to shatter the connection a second later. “Yeay, she…” She raised me, something inside her realized. The selfish idea was followed with an immediate tide of guilt that overwhelmed her with the fact that her parents had no other choice but to work late. “She loves me and I just let her slip by.”
“Hey,” Maya started, “I’m here for you.” Elise felt her breath catch, she took another bite of her bread hoping to quell the dryness in her mouth. “How can I help?”
“You don’t have to.” Elise stated, absolute and final, dread filling her chest.
“I know,” Maya nodded, “but I want to.” the swirling tide of dread and grief receded, just for a moment. Elise took a breath and felt her mind clear around the edges.
“She’s living with my parents, I’ve already helped them install some safety measures.” Elise acquiesced, “you can visit her if you want. She’ll need some company that’s not me or my parents.”
“Will she…” Maya started, brows furrowed as she took a moment to choose her wording, “Will she still remember me?” The question hung in the silence before Maya continued, “It has been a while.”
“I’m,” Elise trailed, “I’m not sure.” Her voice was laden with guilt at the admission, “it’s not only her memory, she might act differently too.” Elise explained, noticing how the ring on Maya’s finger caught the fading sunlight. “So, just try to be patient, don’t argue if she gets things wrong.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Maya agreed, stirring her tea once before taking a contemplative sip with a hand that shook ever so slightly.
Elise paused thinking for a moment while trying to swallow another bite of her bread and jam, “Listening to music seems to help, card games too.” she reasoned the statement ending with a dry chuckle, “She’ll still beat anyone at cards.”
“Some things really never change, do they?” Maya added with a smile, a joke that coaxed a somber yet wistful laugh from Elise, who shook her head in agreement. “Is there anything I can do to help you?” Maya asked after a blissfully calm moment, allowing the sickening feeling to creep in and tangle in Elise’s gut again.
“No.” Elise answered, curt and cold. Elise stifled a cough before continuing, “No, thank you.” She tucked her feet beneath the chair, the soles of her shoes pressing against the paper bag with the sharp crinkling of thick paper. The Paws & Claws logo printed on the side. Maya did not comment, despite clearly seeing her look for supplies earlier, leaving the question to hang in the dead air.
“I volunteered to care for the cat.” Elise remembered, albeit the comment was a bit sudden. Maya hummed, startled. “Yeay’s, um, Demicat.” Elise corrected. “A Pet, for the elderly.” Elise explained, taking a breath, “We bought him a few years back to help her.”
“Yes, I remember,” Maya smiled softly, her hand pressing on Elise’s with a gentle force, “she liked him.”
“Yeah,” Elise agreed, remembering how the pet was only bought to help Yeay with the daily tasks she had begun to have problems with. How these issues were just blamed on Yeay aging, despite being the signs everyone overlooked.
The signs she overlooked.
Signs that were only discovered after Yeay fell. eighty-six and broken on the ground, practically alone in her house. The police were only dialed because-
Elise forcefully slammed the breaks on that train of thought, clenching her jaw as guilt made a home in her again, invading where the comfortable silence briefly rested, settling deep in Elise’s lungs. She forced herself to cough it up, to keep speaking.
“Thankfully, he knows chores and such.” Elise continued in spite of the heavy weight on her chest, “At least I don’t have to deal with that.” Maya nodded, a small agreement before Elise continued, nearly rushed, “He’s quite small too, doesn’t take up much space.”
“That’s convenient.” Maya replied, adjusting her rose-hued hijab with one hand while her other still held Elise’s. Elise shifted allowing her hand to be held more comfortably. For once, it felt something eerily close to calm, a stark contrast to the battering of emotions that were threatening to bruise her ribcage. Life was not how she wanted it to be, still a constant is never guaranteed. Elise knew would have to make peace with that fact.
“Signed the ownership transfer papers yesterday. I’ll be um,” Elise stumbled, caught up on saying a statement that still didn’t feel entirely real, “taking him off my parents hands tomorrow evening.” Glancing to the side absentmindedly she caught a glimpse of a spotted tail, looking up to find the friendly face of Patches, whose ears flicked with a hidden anxiety.
“May I help you?” Patches interjected, his voice professional yet just cordial enough to feel personal as he subtly adjusted the nametag on his chest. ‘Worker’ and ‘not for sale’ were the only words not caught in the glare of the sun reflecting off the casing.
“No, thank you, we’re alright.” Maya addressed, placing both hands on her half empty cup. Elise gave Patches a subtle shake of the head, carefully grabbing a napkin and placing the untouched piece of bread onto it, before pushing the treat towards him.
“Thank you, Miss.” Patches smiled as he grabbed the napkin. His impartial tone was only betrayed by the slightest glint in his eye, a curling of his tail and the revealing of dimples in his cheeks that showed genuine gratitude without a word. Elise did not respond as the pittering of Patches’ receding footsteps was swiftly drowned out by the ambiance of the cafe.
“Say, speaking of cats,” Elise began, swift to change the subject in order to prevent her emotions taking a grasp on her mind again, “any sign of that stray recently?”
“No, I’ve got nothing.” Maya sighed, taking a long sip of her tea “I’m thinking about sitting out near the food though.”
“I hope it doesn’t run.” Elise commented , “you don’t need to go through another chase today.” Maya furrowed her brow in confusion before letting out an easy laugh as her eyes lit up
“You were listening.” Maya remarked between laughter. Elise shifted in her seat at the sudden thought that perhaps Maya did have low expectations for her, though she let herself smile as she pushed it away, reasoning that if Maya did think so little of her, she’d make it known.
“Of course I was,” Elise pushed her plate to the edge of the table, “how could I not be enthralled with Harvey’s latest catastrophe?”
“Honestly, I have no idea how he can escape heavy level restraints,” Maya laughed as she finished off her tea, “we could probably make a show out of it, sell tickets or something.” Elise chuckled at the idea, gathering her belongings before standing up. Maya swiftly followed, both of them still trading quips and ideas as they prepared to leave.
“I’m gonna go and change.” Elise commented once they were settled, glancing down at her stiff handler attire.
“Okay,” Maya commented, simply turning towards the front door, “Good evening then, I’ll see you tomorrow." Elise waved before suddenly remembering her manners and speaking up before Maya could take a step towards the door.
“Maya,” Elise stumbled over her words, “thank you. For–” Elise cursed herself silently as all ideas of what to say fell short.
“It’s no problem.” Maya reassured, a gentle, yet reassuring weight to her words, “Anytime, okay?” Elise simply nodded, grateful that some things didn’t need to be expressed with words.
As Elise tapped her card to enter the employee locker room, part of her felt lightened at the thought that—maybe, just maybe—she didn’t have to struggle alone.
