Page 7

Chapter Six

Ren

I t’s day two of the week-long deprivation of light… of human contact, of food. I’ll deprive him of everything until there’s nothing left but me. I want him to need me, to crave me in the way I have craved him. Just like I have since that fucking day we met.

My obsession with my Thorn started long before I was inside him, long before I even touched him. All it took was the wild look on his face, the way his presence filled the room as he stepped into that small office, dressed in orange and bound. Even then, he belonged to me. Ever since that day, I’ve wanted nothing more than him and to mold him, to carve him, to create him in different ways.

From the hidden camera in the bunk, I watch him puke nothing but bile onto the ground. His body convulses, shaking, and for a moment, I was worried I had to intervene. But luck, or maybe the devil, intervened instead. He shifts onto his side, just barely avoiding choking on his own vomit. Good boy.

I continue to watch him as I sip on my coffee, its warmth doing nothing to settle the hunger gnawing at me—but not for food. The eggs and bacon in front of me sit untouched. I can’t stomach it, not with him like this. In a way, I’ve become just as much of a prisoner as he is. This isn’t just his torture, it’s mine too.

The buzz of my phone pulls my gaze away from the frame, but not for long. Having my Thorn back has awakened something in me, something I thought had dulled in his absence. He’s my muse, as true as he will be my greatest piece to date. My fingers twitch with the need to paint him—his suffering, his submission, the moment he finally realizes there is no world beyond me .

A smile curls at the corner of my lips as I bring my elbows to the desk, clasping my hands together. The lesson is ready. The stage is set. I watch for a while longer as he lays motionless on the ground, one hand resting on his abdomen, the other beneath his head. That infuriating will of his. Still fighting, even with the situation he’s in. No fear. No surrender. Nothing.

He gives me nothing.

But I will take everything.

Even if I have to force it.

Pushing away from the desk, I stand, leaving the office in frustration. My feet carry me toward the bathroom before I even make the decision. Not even having him here could banish her from my mind. That sickness that creeps up whenever I lay in a bed, whenever I step into the shower. She haunts me.

My soul—if I have one—feels out of my body as I slip out of my sweats, and continue dragging myself into the bathroom as if I don’t have control of my own limbs. My hand moves on its own—learned. Turning the water to the hottest setting, I stare at the plum-colored tiles, my vision locking onto the crack in the corner. The same place my eyes always go.

I hear the sound from inside my room—the sharp, angry voices that have been ongoing since last night.

“You are too suffocating,” my father yells at my mother. “Overbearing.”

My mother screams back profanities and insults, a fight I’ve heard too many times before Then I hear the door slam, followed by the sharp click of her heels. My fists clench at my sides, my breath catching, my stomach tightening in anticipation. My heart pounds as her steps grow closer. A rhythm I know too well.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to be still, to breathe like I’m sleeping. Mother didn’t like it when I heard their fights. She preferred me quiet, unaware.

But then, she would come to me. Every time.

Mother is lonely. Mother is sad.

And I make it better.

When she drinks her special drink.

But it’s early. Too early. She never drinks this early. Not when he’s home.

Her footsteps stop right in front of the door. A hesitation.

I turn softly onto my side. She prefers it that way.

She doesn’t have to look at my face.

Just feel my warmth.

The door opens. Softly. Too softly.

Then it closes.

The bed shifts with her weight. A familiar sinking, a familiar silence.

I hope she believes I’m asleep. I hope she leaves.

But I know she won’t.

She never does.

A tickle from the sweat on my neck brings me out of the trance. The bathroom is full of steam from the hot water, heat suffocating the air as I step inside. My body continues its learned behavior, my muscles tightening on instinct, my mind slipping into that familiar state. In a way, still ready… still waiting. Waiting for help that would never come, for hands that will never touch me again, because I ended it.

But loneliness is the condition. A side effect of survival. Is this what it is? Is this the price of my freedom? Am I lonely? I never cared for people. I never needed them. I never really cared for human interaction, but in the outside world, beyond my head, I thrived. I controlled everything—the game, the rules, the players. But having it all taken away has essentially stripped me of the persona I created. Ren Sato was a construct, a mask I wore for the world. Without that world—without my control—who the fuck am I?

Am I even Ren Sato?

Who am I?

So many questions flood my mind as I wash my body, sitting under the water, letting it burn, letting it strip me down further. I welcomed it. The pain. The heat. The sting. This feeling was familiar. Something solid. Something I could hold onto. Everything else inside me feels foreign, like a sickness I can’t purge.

So fucking strange.

Maybe this is my fall. The moment my empire crumbles. Like the Roman Empire, the prodigal child has finally fallen .

It’s not like I can live my life in the open here, not with my face all over the news. Despite all my fucking money, I can’t buy what I truly want… what I need. I could leave, start over, wipe my name from existence, but I refuse to leave him behind.

I won’t.

But I also know that I need him willing. Not just obedient. Not just compliant. Willing. Loyal. Devoted. Dependent. Everything must be willing.

This is why our lessons are important. Because control isn’t enough.

I took a note from my mother’s handbook. Love isn’t something that blossoms—you have to strip it down, mold it, condition it. Make it necessary. Make it the only thing that exists.

And I will.

Turning off the water, I shuffle towards ,myroom, opening a drawer. My movements are automatic, rehearsed. I pull out sweats, but it’s not like I’ll be doing anything other than watching. Waiting. Planning. Always planning.

The burner phone I use to communicate with Kevin rings, and that sound is music to my ears. A sharp pulse of excitement runs through me, cutting through the fog in my mind. Quickly, I slip on the navy blue sweats, ignoring the water clinging to my skin, soaking into the fabric. There’s no point in drying off. Nothing matters but this.

I make my way to the office across the hall, the only space that truly feels like mine. Another piece of the puzzle, waiting to move.

“How’s the little bird?” I lean into the chair, fingers already steepled in front of me.

“Ready to fly.” Short. Efficient. That’s how I know he can’t talk too much or too long. I prefer it that way—brief, controlled, straight to the point.

The call ends, and I take my seat, exhaling slowly as I turn my gaze back to the screen. Continuing to place the pieces on the board. One move at a time.

My first lesson will happen in exactly five days. Five days of hunger, thirst, silence. Five days before the body gives in. But he needs to be willing. It has to feel like a choice, even when there isn’t one.

Which will be no issue—for someone who needs to eat.

Sure, humans can survive a couple of days without eating, even drinking, but humans are creatures of need, and need is the easiest thing to control.

You don’t notice how time moves when you’re holding the leash. It feels slower, dragging on, stretching itself thin, teasing the moment before it snaps. Day one and two all he did was sleep. Useless, wasting away, letting the hunger gnaw at him like a beast with no teeth. By day four, he was too weak to even carry the waste bucket far enough away from him so the smell wouldn’t assault him. Good. Let it linger, let him sit in it. Let him learn that in order to survive me he will have to accept the darkness.

Now, here we are—day seven.

It’s a bright, chilly morning, and here I am, prepping an all-star breakfast. Not just for him, but for me too. I’m starving. But it’s not just hunger—it’s anticipation, buzzing under my skin, pooling in my gut, pressing against my ribs like something caged.

The last couple of days, I’ve done nothing but watch, plan, and wait. It’s been a slow unraveling, a careful game of restraint. Now, I get to see the first real shift. The first crack.

Anticipation hums through my body. Not just eagerness—something deeper, something vital. I’m eager to see how compliant he will be. How far he’s fallen. How much further I can push him.

For this lesson, we will do an art project. A simple lesson.

The first step in stripping him down completely.