Chapter 9: The Walk of Dawn
The sharp scent of Karn’s expensive shower gel still clung to Pete’s skin, a stark contrast to the memory of the previous night – the steam, the tiny towel, the heat radiating through the shower glass. He’d slept fitfully on Karn’s impossibly soft guest room sofa, the luxury feeling alien and slightly suffocating. Dawn painted weak streaks of light through the penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Pete sat up, the smooth leather cool against his bare thighs, the borrowed robe Karn had tossed him before bed pooled beside him.
Karn emerged from his bedroom, impeccably dressed in charcoal grey slacks and a crisp white shirt, already radiating the effortless authority of a Purple Tag. He held out a neatly folded stack of clothes – dark chinos, a simple blue t-shirt. "Here," Karn said, his voice smooth and reasonable. "Put these on. Can't have you wandering the streets like that."
Pete stared at the clothes, then down at his own bare legs folded beneath him. The offer was tempting. Normal. A shield. But the memory of the security cameras in the lobby last night flashed – Karn pulling him close, the hard press against his hip disguised as protection. What if someone reviewed the footage? What if they saw Pete in Purple Tag clothes later? The rules were brutal, arbitrary. Borrowing clothes wasn't explicitly forbidden, but it reeked of fraternization, of a Red Tag getting above his station. The punishment? Demotion, docked pay, maybe even termination. He couldn't risk it. Not with his parents relying on his checks back home.
He pushed the clothes back towards Karn, forcing a small, tight smile. "Nah, man. Thanks. Really. But… it's okay. Don’t wanna cause any trouble for you. Or… for me. You know how it is." His voice was hoarse from sleep and unspoken dread.
Karn tilted his head, his expression a perfect blend of concern and understanding. "Pete, it's no trouble. Seriously. I don't mind." He extended the clothes again.
Pete shook his head more firmly this time, crossing his arms over his chest, a futile gesture of modesty. "Someone sees me in these? If they find out I borrowed 'em from a Purple? They’ll crucify me, Karn. They’ll say I’m…" He trailed off, unable to articulate the imagined accusations – stealing privileges, trying to be something I’m not. "It’s safer like this. Honestly. I’ll just… go like I came in."
Karn studied him for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he sighed, a soft, almost disappointed sound, and placed the clothes neatly on a side table. "Alright, buddy. If that’s what you think is best. I respect that. Don’t want you getting heat." He clapped Pete lightly on the shoulder, the gesture familiar, reassuring. "Ready to head out? Gotta beat the rush."
The walk through the pristine, pre-dawn lobby was a gauntlet. The polished marble floor was icy under Pete’s bare feet, each step echoing too loudly in the vast, empty space. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, arms glued to his sides, trying to make himself smaller, invisible. The hum of the building waking up – distant elevators, the clatter of a cleaning cart – felt like amplified scrutiny. He flinched as Karn suddenly steered him slightly to the left.
"Cameras," Karn murmured, his voice low and conspiratorial, his hand resting briefly on the small of Pete’s back, guiding. It felt less like protection this time and more like a brand. Pete remembered the sensation from last night, the hidden hardness, the teeth grazing his ear. Was Karn positioning him deliberately again? His skin prickled, hyper-aware of every flicker of the overhead lights, every possible lens pointed their way. Karn’s proximity, once a comfort, now felt like walking beside a predator wearing a friendly mask.
The automatic doors hissed open, unleashing the cool bite of morning air. Pete shivered, not just from the chill. Karn hailed a sleek corporate sedan. The short ride was silent, Pete pressed against the far door, knees together, staring out at the city waking up, feeling utterly disconnected from the world outside the glass. Karn scrolled through his phone, radiating calm indifference.
The sedan pulled up to the monolithic headquarters. Pete didn’t wait. The moment the car stopped, he shoved the door open and practically vaulted out, bare feet slapping onto the sidewalk. He didn't look back, didn't wait for Karn. He beelined through the revolving doors, ignoring the startled glance from the early-bird security guard, and sprinted across the echoing, still-mostly-empty main floor towards the dimly lit alcove where the Red Tag support desks were clustered.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. His fingers fumbled, numb with cold and adrenaline, as he yanked open the bottom drawer of his assigned desk. There they were – yesterday’s worn jeans, his slightly faded band t-shirt, his socks balled up inside his scuffed sneakers. He dragged them out, the rough denim feeling like salvation against his skin. He pulled the jeans on so fast he almost fell over, hopping on one foot. The t-shirt came next, smelling faintly of stale coffee and cheap detergent. Socks. Shoes. Laces tied with trembling fingers.
He leaned back against the desk for a second, breathing hard, the coarse fabric of his own clothes a tangible armor. He ran a hand through his messy hair, trying to calm the frantic pounding in his chest. Safe. Covered. At least outwardly. The residual chill from the marble floor seemed to seep into his bones, a stark counterpoint to the flush of shame still warming his face.
He heard Karn’s smooth footsteps approaching before he saw him. Karn stopped at the edge of the alcove, leaning casually against the partition wall. He surveyed Pete, now dressed in his own humble clothes, a faint, unreadable curve touching his lips. He reached out and brushed a speck of lint – imaginary or not – from Pete’s shoulder.
"See?" Karn said, his voice a low purr, meant only for Pete. "Told you it’d be fine. You did good." His knuckles grazed Pete’s collarbone for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he straightened up, the polished Purple Tag gleaming on his lapel. "Let me know if you need anything today. Anything at all." He gave Pete’s shoulder a final, firm squeeze that felt less like reassurance and more like the closing of a trap, then turned and strode away towards the elevators, his footsteps echoing with finality in the cavernous space. Pete stood frozen by his desk, the phantom pressure of Karn’s hand lingering like a bruise, the cold dread settling deeper than the morning chill.
The echo of Karn’s expensive loafers faded into the cavernous lobby, leaving Pete anchored to his cheap desk, the ghost-grip on his shoulder tightening like a vice. He rubbed the spot unconsciously, the rough cotton of his t-shirt grating against skin still buzzing from Karn’s touch. The dread wasn't just cold now; it was a lead weight in his gut.
A low whistle cut through the early morning quiet. "Whoa, Pete. Rough night?" Mark, Karn’s deskmate and another Red Tag, ambled into the alcove, yawning. He wore yesterday's rumpled shirt and slacks, looking as bleary-eyed as Pete felt. He dumped his worn backpack onto the adjacent desk with a thud. "Heard you got roped into some late-night ‘assistance’ for His Purple Highness. Sucks."
Pete forced a weak grin, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. "Yeah. Just some… errands." He couldn’t bring himself to mention the penthouse, the shower, the too-small towel, the icy walk. "Karn means well." The words tasted like ash.
Mark snorted, already logging into his terminal. "Right. Means well. Like a fox means well checking on the hens." He rummaged in his desk drawer, pulling out a cheap plastic comb. "Least you got out before the daily humiliation lottery." He gestured vaguely towards a digital bulletin screen flickering awake on the far wall.
Pete’s stomach dropped. The Cloth Assignment list. He’d forgotten. Had he been on it today? He hadn’t checked. His fingers felt clumsy as he swiped his access card over the reader on his monitor. The screen blinked, loading his schedule and assignments. His eyes scanned frantically down the list, past shift times and task codes… past the dreaded ‘Attire Designation’ field…
Empty.
Relief, sharp and sudden, washed over him, leaving him lightheaded. Not today. He wasn’t on the list. He could keep his jeans and shirt. He sagged back in his chair, the cheap plastic creaking. "Thank god," he breathed, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Mark paused mid-hair-smoothing. His eyes flicked to Pete’s screen, then back to his own as it booted up. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Lucky bastard." His voice was flat. He stared at his own screen, the glow reflecting in his suddenly dull eyes. Pete watched, the relief curdling into something sour as he saw it: Mark’s ‘Attire Designation’ field glaring back at him – Tie & Boxer Brief. Minimum Coverage Protocol.
Mark sighed. It wasn’t a sound of annoyance, but something deeper, heavier. Resignation. Defeat. Without looking at Pete, without another word, he pushed his chair back. His movements were methodical, almost robotic. He unbuttoned his wrinkled shirt, shrugged it off, revealing a plain white undershirt. That came off next, tossed carelessly on the desk. He unbuckled his belt, the rasp loud in the quiet alcove, then unzipped his slacks. They pooled around his ankles. He stepped out, kicking them aside.
Standing there in just his boxer briefs, Mark seemed smaller, more vulnerable. His bare feet looked pale on the polished concrete floor. He reached into the drawer again, pulling out a single, cheap corporate tie – standard issue, navy blue polyester. He looped it around his neck, fumbling slightly with the knot under his chin. The contrast was jarring: the ridiculous formality of the tie against the utter vulnerability of almost bare skin. He didn’t meet Pete’s gaze. His cock, already noticeably stiffening against the thin fabric of his briefs, twitched as he adjusted the tie, a purely physical reaction he seemed oblivious to, or perhaps had long stopped caring about. He just stared blankly ahead at his terminal screen, waiting for the day to begin.
Pete looked away, a hot flush creeping up his own neck. He felt a pang of sympathy warring with a sickening sense of voyeurism. He wanted to say something – anything – but the words choked him. Sorry? It felt hollow. That sucks? Obvious. He clenched his fists on his knees, the familiar denim suddenly feeling like a shield he didn't deserve. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Mark didn’t move, a statue of enforced exposure.
The silence stretched, thick as spilled glue, broken only by the low hum of the server bank nearby. Mark remained motionless by his terminal, the navy tie absurdly formal against his bare chest and the stark white of his straining briefs. Pete looked away, focusing fiercely on his own dusty keyboard, the familiar grooves under his fingers a grounding point amidst the suffocating awkwardness.
A soft chime echoed from Pete’s terminal. A new task notification blinked insistently: Document Distribution – Priority Urgent. A list of department codes scrolled down – Marketing, Compliance, R&D… and finally, Karn’s private office suite on the 40th floor. Pete’s stomach clenched. Walking the open floors. Again. He pushed back his chair, the scrape loud against the quiet. "Delivery run," he mumbled, avoiding Mark’s periphery. Mark just gave a minute, stiff nod, his gaze fixed blankly on the glowing screen.
Pete gathered the thick, sealed envelopes from the outbox, their crisp edges digging into his palm. He hesitated, a reflexive urge to pull his shirt tighter warring with the futility of it. He took a shallow breath, steeling himself, and stepped out of the relative sanctuary of the alcove into the main artery of the lobby. The polished marble floor, impeccably clean, felt like ice under his thin sneakers. Air conditioning, set for suited Purple Tags, raised goosebumps along his bare arms beneath the short sleeves of his worn t-shirt. Eyes flickered towards him – a swift, assessing glance from a Purple Tag striding past. Pete kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, the weight of the documents suddenly feeling like lead.
He moved quickly, efficiently. Marketing was first: a sleek, glass-walled department buzzing with low chatter. He handed the envelope to a receptionist who barely registered him, her manicured fingers snatching it without meeting his eyes. "Thanks," Pete muttered to the empty air she’d already turned her back on. The walk to Compliance felt longer, the exposed stretch past executive meeting rooms making his skin crawl. He focused on the rhythmic slap of his sneakers, the texture of the envelopes in his hand, anything but the open space around him. Better than yesterday, he thought fiercely, the memory of bare skin on cold marble, utterly exposed, flashing hot and shameful behind his eyes. At least he had clothes. Jeans and a t-shirt felt like armor by comparison.
R&D was deeper in the building, a labyrinth of sterile corridors smelling faintly of ozone and solder. Here, a few lab-coated tech scientists actually met his gaze, their expressions unreadable behind safety glasses. One offered a curt nod as Pete deposited the envelope into a secure slot. He mumbled an acknowledgment, relief already tingeing his movements. Just one more. Karn’s office.
The express elevator to the 40th floor was empty. He watched the numbers climb, the silence amplifying the thud of his own heartbeat. He shifted the last envelope, the one marked with Karn’s personal sigil, from hand to hand. Karn meant well. He was a friend. Pete repeated it like a mantra, trying to banish the chill of the lobby embrace, the feeling of being maneuvered for unseen cameras. The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open onto a hushed corridor of deep carpet and dark wood paneling. Karn’s office door, imposing and solid oak, stood at the end.
Pete approached, the plush carpet muffling his steps. He raised his hand, knuckles poised to knock on the polished wood. Before he could make contact, the door swung silently inward a few inches. Karn stood there, silhouetted against the panoramic city view beyond his floor-to-ceiling windows. His expression was uncharacteristically tense, his usual polished charm replaced by sharp focus.
"Pete," Karn whispered, his voice low and urgent, cutting through the quiet luxury. His eyes darted past Pete, scanning the empty corridor. "Get in. Quick." He stepped back, gesturing sharply with his head. "Lock the door behind you."
The polished oak clicked shut with finality, sealing them in Karn's silent, sprawling office. City light streamed through the vast windows, painting everything in harsh, early morning angles. Karn was already moving, his usual effortless glide replaced by sharp strides towards his minimalist desk.
"Security sweeps," he hissed, not looking back. "Taggert’s doing a surprise 'efficiency check' down the hall in ten. Likes catching Reds looking… unprepared." He snatched up a tablet, fingers flying over the screen. Pete stood frozen just inside the door, the thick envelope still clutched in his hand, forgotten. The air, scented faintly of Karn’s expensive cedar cologne and stale coffee, felt suddenly thin.
Karn finally turned, leaning against the desk edge, his expression tight, urgent. He lowered his voice, though the room was empty. "Look, Pete. I just saw the assignment roster for tomorrow. The daily… attire lottery." He winced slightly, a practiced gesture of sympathy. "Your name’s on it."
Pete’s stomach plummeted. Images flashed: Mark standing stiffly in just the tie and briefs, the humiliating walk to Karn’s penthouse last night naked. His knuckles whitened on the document envelope. "What… what did they pick?" His voice was barely a whisper.
Karn pushed off the desk, closing the distance between them. He didn't touch Pete, but his presence filled the space, intense. "It’s bad, buddy. Worse than a tank top and boxers I chose yesterday, Worse than a thong on the day before yesterday." He paused, letting the dread sink in, his dark eyes fixed on Pete’s. "One of the Purps – probably Harrington, the creep from Acquisitions – he pushed through approval for something called an 'invisible jockstrap'. It's…" Karn shook his head, a grimace of disgust that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Supposedly some new polymer tech. Practically transparent. Covers… well, technically something, but functionally? Nothing. Like walking around naked with a fig leaf made of cling film."
Pete felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him cold. The marble lobby floor seemed to rush up to meet him again. The whole company. Seeing him like that. Mocking whispers. Pictures maybe. His throat tightened. "No." The word escaped, choked. "Karn, I can’t—"
"I know!" Karn cut him off, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, leaning in fractionally. The faint scent of his mint toothpaste mingled with the cedar. "It’s degrading. Barbaric. That’s why I flagged it. Look." He gestured towards his tablet. "I can pull you. Right now. Sign the override. Assign you as my dedicated personal assistant tomorrow. All day. You’d be here." He swept his hand around the plush, private office. "Just you and me. No parade. No gawking idiots. You’d just… work. Normally. Well," he amended with a small, strained smile, "as normally as anything here gets."
Relief warred with a fresh wave of shame. Trapped in here with Karn, remembering the hot press against him in the lobby, the unnerving intimacy of the penthouse shower… but weighed against the utter, skin-crawling exposure of the "invisible jockstrap" in front of everyone? It wasn't a choice. It was triage. Karn was offering a shield, however unsettling its proximity might be. Staying hidden here felt infinitely preferable to being stripped bare for the entire company’s amusement.
Tears pricked Pete’s eyes, but he blinked them back fiercely. The envelope slipped from his numb fingers, landing silently on the deep carpet. He met Karn’s gaze, searching for the friend beneath the Purple Tag. "You… you can do that? Sign it?"
"For you? Absolutely." Karn’s voice softened, his hand hovering near Pete’s arm but not quite touching. "I saw the roster early. Wanted to warn you. Give you this out. You shouldn’t have to face that. Nobody should." He turned back to the tablet, fingers tapping rapidly. A sleek digital document appeared. "Just need your verbal confirmation. And my signature." He looked up, waiting. "Say yes, Pete. Stay here tomorrow. Safe."
Pete swallowed hard, the phantom chill of tomorrow’s non-existent garment prickling his skin. Safe. With Karn. Was it? It had to be better than the alternative. Karn was his friend. He’d shielded him from the cameras, hadn't he? He was shielding him now. "Yes," Pete breathed, the word thick. "Please. Sign it. Thank you, Karn. Really. Thank you for… for telling me. For this." Gratitude, genuine and desperate, flooded him, momentarily washing away the disquiet Karn’s closeness sometimes brought.
A satisfied glint, swiftly masked, flickered in Karn’s eyes. "Of course. That’s what friends do." His stylus scratched decisively across the tablet screen. The digital signature glowed purple. "Done. You’re officially mine for the day tomorrow. Meet me here at eight." He offered a reassuring smile, warm, familiar. "Just you, me, and probably a mountain of reports." He nudged the fallen envelope with his polished shoe. "You can deliver that now. Taggert’s moved on."
Pete bent, scooping up the envelope, his movements stiff. Safe. Tomorrow was contained. Karn’s domain. The image of the invisible jockstrap receded, replaced by the uneasy sanctuary of this gilded office. "Right. Thanks, Karn," he repeated, the words feeling inadequate against the magnitude of the humiliation avoided. He turned towards the heavy door, the lock mechanism releasing with a soft snick under Karn’s remote command. As he stepped back into the corridor, the vast, exposed lobby stretching below, the cool air felt different. Not just cold, but charged with the knowledge of the bargain he’d just made.