Nevan sat on the edge of his bed, hands clutching the soft folds of his blanket, staring at the floor. The room was silent, but his mind refused to be.

Every detail of the hallway, every movement of Airn’s hand, every glance from Alastor played on repeat. The memory of his own trembling fingers, the pulse racing under Airn’s touch, made his chest ache with something he didn’t have a name for.

Why did I do that? he thought, his voice barely more than a whisper. Why did I… let him touch me?

The answer should have been simple: fear. Survival. Protect Theo. But it wasn’t.

There had been something else, something that lurked beneath the edge of panic. A strange, sharp craving—an ache he didn’t understand—mixed with guilt and shame, and yet… a twisted relief.

Nevan closed his eyes. He could still feel it. The warmth of Airn’s palm against his wrist. The pressure against his throat. The knowledge that, for a fleeting moment, he’d held the power himself, and given it away willingly.

He shivered. Not from cold. From the memory of control and the way it made his chest tighten.

I’m weak, he told himself. I’m pathetic. I shouldn’t have…

But even as he scolded himself, a part of him ached for it again—an insane, impossible part that wanted the certainty of boundaries, the structure of rules, the knowledge of what was allowed and what was forbidden.

Nevan’s gaze drifted to the small window, the moonlight painting slivers across the floor. His hands curled into fists. He hated himself for thinking about them. Hated himself for wanting the stability their attention promised, even if it terrified him.

I can’t… I can’t let them see me like this. I can’t let anyone…

He thought of Theo, of the easy laughter, the careless smiles. The boy had no idea what had happened in the hallways today. That thought twisted his stomach. Protecting him—that was why he’d begged, why he’d crossed that line. And it was why, deep down, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Nevan buried his face in his hands, pressing as hard as he could to ground himself, to push the thrill, the fear, and the craving away. But it lingered like a shadow. He realized, with a cold pang, that he was already waiting. Waiting for the next time, the next test, the next rule, the next moment he would be forced to measure himself against Airn and Alastor.

And I’ll obey, he thought, hating himself for it. I’ll do it again if it keeps Theo safe… if it keeps them from noticing him…

His eyes fluttered open. The moonlight reflected off his green eyes, wide, trembling, aware. Somewhere deep inside, he knew the cage had already been locked around him—not with chains or locks, but with rules, observation, and his own heart.

Nevan leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, mind spinning. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t want to. And yet… he was already craving the next moment, the next command, the next test, and even the chance to prove himself worthy—if only to survive.

He whispered into the silence, almost to himself:
“I don’t know why… I can’t stop thinking about them. But… I can’t let anything happen to him.”

And in that quiet, trembling thought, the first seed of complete submission—wrapped in obsession, fear, and protective love—was planted.

The morning sunlight filtered weakly through the blinds, but Nevan barely noticed it. He dressed quickly, hands trembling slightly as he tried to ignore the lingering ache in his chest. The hallway outside his room was quiet, normal—too normal—but he knew it wouldn’t stay that way.

By the time he reached Blackwood College, the familiar hum of students filled the corridors. Laughter, chatter, lockers slamming shut—it all felt distant, filtered, as if he were hearing it from behind a wall.

Nevan kept his head low, bag slung over one shoulder, trying to appear normal. He tried to focus on the mundane—the clatter of shoes against the floor, the scent of coffee and paper—but every instinct screamed at him that the twins were watching.

He didn’t have to look far.

Airn was leaning against a locker near the entrance, smirk sharp, body relaxed but alert. Alastor stood just inside the classroom door, hands folded, watching, calculating. Both of them were impossibly still, yet Nevan could feel the weight of their attention like a hand pressing down on his shoulders.

It’s happening again, he thought, chest tightening.

Airn’s eyes flicked to him, just for a second, and Nevan felt it like a spark: the silent, unspoken rule of the day. Don’t look too comfortable. Keep your steps measured. Keep your breathing calm. Keep your hands exactly where they should be.

Nevan made his way to class, heart hammering, green eyes darting briefly toward the twins. Airn’s smirk deepened just slightly, enough to send a shiver down his spine.

He wasn’t even inside yet, and already he knew the rules had begun.

Class was a blur. The twins didn’t speak to him—at least, not overtly—but their presence was everywhere. A glance here, a slight shift there, a subtle push of the shoulder from another student guided by them.

Nevan realized he was counting everything: the angle of Airn’s gaze, the distance Alastor kept, the timing of every movement. It was exhausting. And he hated that he couldn’t stop.

By mid-morning, it became obvious.

Airn’s “rules” weren’t written. They weren’t shouted. They were silent—but precise:

• Keep your eyes down unless you’re spoken to.
  
  

• Walk past them without reaction.
  
  

• Sit in the same seat in class; any deviation would draw attention.
  
  

• Never speak of them to anyone else.
  
  

• Always answer politely, always yield, always comply when prompted.
  
  

Nevan obeyed instinctively. His calm exterior never cracked, but inside, every fiber of him strained under their quiet dominance.

Alastor watched it all unfold like a hawk. Every small twitch, every hesitation, every involuntary flinch was noted, catalogued, stored.

He’s learning fast, Alastor thought, smirk tugging at his lips.

By lunch, the first subtle test came. A textbook slipped from Nevan’s hands, and Airn caught it with a grin.

“Careful,” Airn murmured, handing it back. “I’d hate to see you punished for clumsiness.”

Nevan’s chest seized. He nodded, words failing him, and walked away quickly, feeling the weight of the warning hang in the air.

Later, in the courtyard, Alastor casually leaned against a tree, observing. “He’s terrified,” Alastor murmured to Airn. “Not of us. Of failing us.”

Airn’s smirk deepened. “Exactly. That’s the point.”

Nevan sat with Theo for a brief moment, forcing himself to laugh at a joke, to seem normal. But the tension never left his shoulders. The invisible rules—Airn’s rules, Alastor’s rules—were constant.

By the end of the day, Nevan realized something horrifying: he was already thinking about them, already predicting their reactions, already bending himself to fit what they wanted.

And worse…

He hated himself for it.

As he left the campus, backpack slung over one shoulder, he glanced back at the twins. Airn’s gaze met his for a fraction of a second. That smirk. That dangerous, predatory smirk.

Nevan’s stomach twisted, chest tight. He knew the game had only just begun.

And somewhere deep down, a part of him—terrified, ashamed, and utterly aware—was already craving the next command.