Page 20 of Discordant Cultivation

Vale was delighted to find Kieran in the living room, ostensibly reading a book from one of his shelves, but really he just stared at the same page for ten minutes. He still wore the soft clothes Vale provided, his posture carefully neutral in a way that screamed performance.

“Good morning,” Vale said.

Kieran looked up, and there it was—the micro-expression of fear smoothed into something resembling calm acceptance. Too fast. Too practiced.

You’re playing a part, beautiful boy. Let’s see how long you can maintain it.

“Morning,” Kieran replied, his voice steady. He set the book aside and made eye contact. Every movement looked calculated to appear cooperative without seeming suspicious.

Vale settled into the chair across from him, studying the careful mask Kieran had constructed overnight. This was the behavior of someone who decided that overt resistance was counterproductive, that compliance might buy time or opportunities.

Clever. But not clever enough.

“We’re going to work on your music today,” Vale said simply. “I want you to play your song for me.”

“Okay.” Kieran’s voice was neutral, agreeable. “What d-do you need me t-to do?”

Too compliant.

Vale gestured to where Kieran’s guitar leaned against the wall—cleaned, restrung, and perfectly maintained during the hours Kieran had been sleeping. “Play. I’ll listen.”

He watched Kieran stand, moving to retrieve the guitar with movements that were slightly too controlled.

Kieran settled back on the couch, his fingers finding the opening chord progression with ease.

But the performance was exactly that—easy. Clean. Emotionally distant. The same protective layer he used during street performances.

Vale let him get through the first verse before speaking. “Stop.”

Kieran’s hands stilled on the strings, confusion marring his careful expression. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re hiding.” Vale stood, moved to the side table where a small box of supplies remained unopened since this morning. “We’re going to fix that.”

He opened the box and removed latex gloves, gauze, ice packs, a sealed scalpel in sterile packaging, and a small container of salt.

Kieran’s face drained of color. “W-what is that?”

Vale pulled on the gloves, the latex snapping against his wrists. He didn’t answer. Explanations would give Kieran too much control, too much ability to prepare mentally.

Better to keep him uncertain.

Vale retrieved an instant ice pack and shook it to activate it as he moved to sit beside Kieran on the couch. “Your arm.”

Kieran hesitated, then slowly extended his arm. Vale applied the ice pack to his inner forearm and held it in place.

“What are you d-doing?”

Vale checked his watch and began timing. He still didn’t answer.

The ice burned against Kieran’s skin, Vale knew. It would be uncomfortable, then painful, then eventually numbing. He watched Kieran’s face as the minutes ticked by—two, three, five—absorbing each wince, each purse of his lips, each sign of discomfort, confusion,and growing dread.

He wanted to drink that dread.

At seven minutes, Vale removed the ice pack. Kieran’s skin was pale and bloodless.

“Tell me when you can feel this.” Vale pressed a fingertip against the numbed area.

“I can’t—it’s numb.”