Chapter 4: The Livestream
The pressure fled from Marcus’s neck. He drew a ragged breath, the light in the room swimming back into sharp focus. Evan’s face was inches from his, blue eyes wide and searching for approval.
“Better,” Marcus croaked, rubbing his throat. The phantom of the choke lingered, a comfortable, familiar ache. “But you released too fast. The tap isn’t an electric switch. It’s a dimmer. You hold for a two-count, let the surrender settle. Otherwise it feels… transactional.”
Evan nodded, absorbing every word like scripture. He was a quick study, his initial clumsiness hardening into something more deliberate. He’d stopped asking if Marcus was okay. The question had died somewhere around the fourth choke.
Marcus pushed himself up, his joints popping. The silence of the apartment was gone, replaced by the sound of their breathing, the rustle of the mat. It was a different silence, alive with potential. He looked at the tripod standing in the corner, the empty space where Ari’s phone usually lived.
An idea, dark and sweet, uncoiled in his mind.
“She livestreams everything,” Marcus said, his voice casual. He walked over to the tripod, extending a leg with a soft click.
Evan watched him, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Yeah. I’ve seen them. The comments go crazy.”
“You learn faster with an audience.” Marcus walked to the kitchen counter, where his own phone lay charging. He detached the cable. “Pressure tests the technique. Exposes the nerves.”
He mounted his phone on the tripod, the screen a black rectangle. He opened the streaming app, his fingers moving with a technician’s calm. He’d filmed Ari from this angle a hundred times, a prone cameraman. Now he was directing.
“We’re going live?” Evan asked. A flicker of something—nerves, excitement—crossed his face.
“Advanced training,” Marcus said, typing a title into the field. He didn’t look at Evan. “That’s what she sent you for, right?”
He hit the button.
A red light appeared on the screen. The number ‘1’ glowed in the viewer count, then ‘3’, then ‘12’. The chat sidebar, a mere trickle at first, began to scroll.
AriFan93: wait is this marcus’s account?
TriangleChokeQueen: OMG IS THAT THE NEW GUY FROM THE DENVER PICS?
SubmissionSavant: no Ari today?
Marcus ignored the chat. He positioned himself in the center of the mat, sitting back on his heels. He looked small in the frame. Deliberate. “Alright, Evan. From the back. Take your time. Set the hooks.”
Evan, suddenly aware of the lens, moved with a new formality. He settled behind Marcus, his legs wrapping around Marcus’s torso, chest to back. His forearm slid under Marcus’s chin, his other hand coming behind Marcus’s head. The position was clean. Textbook.
“Now,” Marcus said, his voice calm, instructional, amplified slightly by the phone’s microphone. “Talk to them. Explain what you’re doing. The pressure isn’t on the windpipe. It’s on the sides. You’re compressing the carotids.”
Evan cleared his throat. “Uh. Yeah. So, you want the blade of your forearm here, just under the jawline.” He adjusted, and Marcus felt the specific, intimate pressure begin to build. “And then you… you squeeze your elbows together.”
The viewer count hit fifty. The chat scrolled faster.
GrappleGuy: looks tight!
SleeplessInSeattle: is marcus gonna go out?
ArisPet: tell him to tap, marcus!
“He’ll tap when it’s correct,” Marcus said, addressing the chat directly, his eyes on the camera. His vision was starting to tunnel, a gray vignette closing in. The sensation was warm, almost welcoming. “The choke isn’t right until the recipient has no choice. Until the tap is just a formality. Squeeze, Evan. Don’t ask for it. Take it.”
Evan’s arms tightened. The pressure spiked, deep and final. The room’s edges melted. The chatter of the phone, the hum of the fridge, the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears—all of it receded, replaced by a thick, velveteen quiet. This was the silence he’d been missing. Not the empty silence of her absence, but the full, complete silence of purpose. He was useful.
His hand came up, patting weakly at Evan’s arm.
Evan held. One thousand. Two thousand.
Then release.
Marcus folded forward, coughing, dragging air into his burning lungs. The world rushed back in a dizzying cacophony. The phone chiming with notifications. Evan’s heavy breaths. The pounding in his own skull.
He lifted his head. The viewer count was 127.
“Good,” Marcus rasped, a genuine smile touching his lips. He looked at the camera, at the little red light. “See? The two-count. It makes it real.”
SubmissionSavant: holy shit he’s totally coaching his own blackout
TriangleChokeQueen: this is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen
Evan was staring at the chat, his expression one of rapt fascination. He wasn’t seeing comments; he was seeing validation, currency, a future. He looked from the screen to Marcus, a new kind of hunger in his eyes. No longer the eager student. Something sharper.
“They love it,” Evan said quietly.
“They love her,” Marcus corrected, struggling to his knees. “We’re just the demonstration.”
“But we’re the ones here.” Evan’s voice had lost its nervous quiver. It was flat. Observational. He reached out and nudged Marcus’s shoulder, pushing him off-balance. It wasn’t a violent move. It was a test. A rearrangement. “Your turn to try the choke. Let’s see if you were paying attention all those times.”
Marcus caught himself on his palms. He looked up at Evan, backlit by the ceiling light, his face in shadow. The dynamic had shifted, molecule by molecule, through the alchemy of performance and an audience. The script was rewriting itself in real time.
The chat was screaming for it.
Marcus turned, presenting his back to the camera, and shifted into position.