Chapter 1: The Hypnosis App
The afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Kaguya Shinomiya’s penthouse, painting the vast expanse of marble floor with long, geometric shadows. The air hummed with the quiet chill of central air conditioning and unresolved tension.
“And that’s why you should never invest in railways during a wheat shortage,” Chika Fujiwara declared, slapping a game piece down on the board between them. Her pink hair, tied with its customary bow, seemed to vibrate with her energy.
Kaguya leaned back on her white sofa, steepling her fingers. Her crimson eyes coolly assessed the game state. “A fundamentally sound strategy, if one ignores the industrial boom happening in the adjacent provinces. Your logic is as refined as your lunch selection, Chika.”
Chika blinked, her smile faltering for a millisecond. “Huh? What’s wrong with my lunch? It was curry bread! Delicious!”
“The scent of fried dough and cheap curry powder has been… persistent since you arrived.” Kaguya’s nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly. “And if I may be so bold, a shower after one’s gym session is considered basic courtesy. The aroma of effort is… frankly, agricultural.”
The words landed not like a slap, but like a surgical incision—precise, cold, and deep. Chika’s cheerful mask cracked. A flush crept up her neck, not from anger at first, but from a sharp, unexpected hurt. Her gym clothes were a bit stale, and she had rushed over straight from spin class, too excited to try the new expansion pack.
“Wow,” Chika said, her voice losing its musical lilt. “Okay. Sorry my human smells are offending your royal nose, Kaguya-sama.” She forced a laugh, but it sounded brittle.
Kaguya simply inclined her head, a queen granting a subject pardon. The dismissal was absolute. “Shall we continue? It’s your move.”
Chika’s mind wasn’t on the game. The cheerful, playful part of her shriveled up, replaced by a hot, prickling shame. Agricultural. She stared at Kaguya’s perfect posture, her immaculate black hair falling like a silk curtain, her expression one of detached superiority. The giant apartment, all cold marble and minimalist art, suddenly felt like a sarcophagus.
She fumbled with her phone, pretending to check a notification. Her thumbs swiped and tapped, not on a messaging app, but frantically searching through a folder of silly novelties she’d downloaded on a whim weeks ago. One icon glowed back at her: a spiraling eye with the label “HypnoLab – For Research & Fun!”
A stupid joke app. The kind that played pulsing tones and made silly suggestions about craving carrots. A cruel, brilliant idea ignited in Chika’s chest, burning away the hurt.
“Hey, Kaguya, check this out,” Chika chirped, her playfulness returning but with a new, metallic edge. She hit play on the app and slid the phone across the glass coffee table. A low, resonant tone began to pulse from the speaker. “It’s supposed to, like, make you super suggestible or whatever. Total pseudoscience, but it’s funny!”
Kaguya glanced at the phone with profound disinterest. “Childish. Please turn it off. The sound is grating.”
“Just for a minute! Look at the spiral. Isn’t it trippy?” Chika leaned forward, her eyes wide and innocent. The app’s audio shifted, layering in a subtle, rhythmic clicking under the tone. Kaguya, with a sigh of supreme annoyance, looked directly at the screen to humor her.
She watched the spiral spin for maybe ten seconds. Her expression of bored contempt didn’t change. The app pinged softly, indicating the “session” was over.
“Satisfied?” Kaguya asked dryly.
“Totally!” Chika snatched her phone back, heart hammering against her ribs. It was nonsense. It had to be. But the need to flip the script, to wipe that condescending look off Kaguya’s face, was overwhelming. She took a breath, licking her lips. “Hey, Kaguya. You know what you should do?”
Kaguya raised a single, perfect eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
The words left Chika’s mouth in a giddy, testing whisper. “You should… get on your knees.”
A jolt went through Kaguya’s body. It was subtle—a tightening of her shoulders, a slight hitch in her breath. Her crimson eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah,” Chika continued, the idea solidifying. “Right here. On the rug. You should get on your knees.” She said it slowly, clearly.
Kaguya’s hands gripped the edge of the sofa cushion. Her knuckles turned white. “This is not amusing, Chika. Stop this at once.”
But even as she said it, a tremor ran through her legs. A look of pure, uncomprehending horror dawned on her face as she felt her own body begin to disobey her. Slowly, stiffly, like a marionette with tangled strings, she pushed herself up from the sofa.
“What… is this?” Kaguya’s voice was a strained thread of its usual confidence.
Chika watched, mesmerized. A slow, wide smile spread across her face. It worked. The stupid app actually worked. “The rug, Kaguya. The nice, clean, white rug.”
Kaguya took a shuddering step forward. Her pride was a visible force, holding her spine rigid, fighting every millimeter of descent. But her knees were bending. Against her will, against every screaming neuron in her brilliant mind, she lowered herself. The luxurious, plush pile of the white rug met her knees. She knelt before Chika, her face pale with shock and dawning humiliation.
“Good!” Chika giggled, the sound echoing in the vast, silent room. She swung her legs off the sofa and planted her feet firmly on the floor in front of the kneeling Kaguya. She was still in her well-worn sneakers and bright athletic socks. “Wow. This is wild. You’re really listening!”
“I am not listening,” Kaguya spat, her voice trembling with fury. “My body is… malfunctioning. You’ve done something.”
“Sure, sure. A malfunction.” Chika’s eyes sparkled with malicious delight. The hurt from earlier was now fuel. “Hey, since you’re so concerned about smells… why don’t you investigate? Get a closer look. At my feet.”
“No.”
“Go on. Lean in.” Chika’s tone was playful, but the command in it was iron.
Kaguya’s body swayed forward. She threw her weight back, a low grunt of effort escaping her. It was a pitiful struggle. Her proud spine arched, then relentlessly curved forward, bringing her down from her knees to her hands, putting her in a crawling position. Her nose drew closer to Chika’s socked feet.
“Closer,” Chika whispered, entranced by the power. She wiggled her toes.
Kaguya shut her eyes tight, but the scent, the very one she had criticized, filled her senses—the faint, salty-sweet odor of sweat, the synthetic cotton of the socks, the underlying leather of the shoe. It was intimate. Degrading. A hot tear of sheer frustration leaked from her clenched eyes.
“Now…” Chika drew the word out, savoring it. “Take a deep, really deep sniff. Tell me what you think. Since you’re such an expert.”
“I will not!” Kaguya’s protest was muffled, her face now inches away.
Her body betrayed her. Her chest expanded in a long, shuddering inhale. The scent flooded her, undeniable and grossly personal. She gagged, a purely physical reaction, but couldn’t pull away.
Chika threw her head back and laughed, a full, unhinged sound of joy. “See? Not so ‘agricultural’ now, is it? More like… authentic!” She looked down at the heir to the Shinomiya conglomerate, reduced to sniffing her gym socks, and felt a surge of absolute control. “You’re being such a good girl, Kaguya. Who knew you had it in you?”
Kaguya didn’t answer. She was frozen there, breathing raggedly, her mind screaming through a haze of violation. The physical compulsion was horror enough, but the true agony was in her friend’s voice—the gleeful cruelty where there was once only idle playfulness. The cool marble under her hands, the expansive view of the city behind her, none of it mattered. Her world had shrunk to this patch of rug, to this demeaning scent, and to the chilling sound of Chika’s laughter.
The laughter eventually subsided into pleased, shaky giggles. Chika leaned forward, her shadow falling over Kaguya. “You can stay there for a bit,” she said, her voice soft and dangerously sweet. “I think it suits you. We’ll figure out what to do next… together.”
Kaguya, kneeling in the fading light, said nothing. The only movement was the frantic pulse in her throat and the slow, hot tracks of tears carving through her perfect composure. The game was over. A new, much darker one had just begun, and she had already lost the first move. Completely.
Chika’s giggles faded into a soft, contemplative hum. She tapped a finger against her chin, looking down at Kaguya as if she were a fascinating puzzle she’d just solved. The raw power was headier than any game win.
“You’re just too tense, Kaguya,” Chika sing-songed, swinging her feet idly. “All that ‘Shinomiya dignity’ is, like, super stiff. You should relax your jaw.”
Kaguya’s teeth, which had been clamped together in a rigid line of defiance, suddenly slackened. Her mouth fell open just slightly. A tiny, distressed sound escaped her.
“There! Better already.” Chika beamed. She then stretched her arms over her head with a theatrical yawn. “Man, my feet are kinda sore from spin class. They really ache.”
She let the statement hang in the air, watching the comprehension flood Kaguya’s horrified eyes.
“No,” Kaguya whispered, the word thick and mangled by her unclenched jaw.
“You should rub them for me. My poor, smelly, athletic feet.” Chika said it with a pout, her eyes gleaming. “Use your hands. Go on.”
Kaguya’s arms moved as if the air had turned to syrup. They were heavy, alien things. Her slender, graceful hands—hands that had never done manual labor, that signed billion-yen documents—lifted and hovered in the air. They trembled violently.
“I… will not… be… a slave…” she ground out, every syllable a war.
“But you’re not a slave!” Chika chirped. “You’re just being a good friend. Helping me out. Now, hands on feet. Start with the left one.”
The compulsion was a physical wire, tugging at her joints. Her right hand descended first, her fingers splaying against the thick fabric of Chika’s sock. The feel of it, the slight dampness from sweat, made her stomach roil. Her left hand followed, cupping Chika’s heel.
“Now rub. You know, like a massage.”
Kaguya’s hands began to move. They kneaded the socked foot in a slow, rhythmic motion. It was a grotesque pantomime of care. Every press of her thumb, every slide of her palm, was a violation etched directly onto her nervous system. She stared at her own working hands as if they belonged to a stranger.
“See? You’re good at this!” Chika sighed, melting back into the sofa cushions. “Oh yeah, a little more pressure on the arch. Right there.”
Kaguya increased the pressure. A choked sob finally broke free from her throat. Tears were flowing freely now, dripping off her chin and onto the pristine white rug beneath her knees. The humiliation was absolute, but beneath it was a colder, more terrifying reality: her body was no longer her own. It was a rented space, and Chika held the keys.
“You know,” Chika mused, her voice light and conversational, “this is way more fun than board games. It’s, like, interactive. I say something, and you just… do it.” She leaned forward again, her playful tone hardening around the edges. “Stand up.”
The relief from ceasing the massage was instantaneous, but it was instantly replaced by a new dread. Kaguya’s body pushed her upright, her legs obeying before her mind could even formulate a protest. She stood, swaying, her cheeks stained with tears, her hands hanging limp and contaminated at her sides.
Chika remained seated, looking up at her with a predator’s smile. The power dynamic was visually complete: the master on the sofa, the subject standing at attention.
“Your shirt is kinda wrinkled from all that… kneeling,” Chika observed, her head tilting. “You should fix it. Take it off.”
The air left Kaguya’s lungs. Her crimson eyes widened into pools of pure, unadulterated terror. This was the line. This was the inviolable boundary of self.
“Chika,” she breathed, the name a desperate plea. “Don’t.”
“Take. It. Off.” Chika repeated, each word a hammer tap.
Kaguya’s hands rose. They floated to the hem of her exquisite, cream-colored silk blouse. Her fingers hooked under the fabric. They were shaking so badly she could barely grip it. Every cell in her brain shrieked in revolt, a cacophony of denial that her muscles simply could not hear.
Slowly, agonizingly, she began to pull the blouse upward. The cool air of the apartment touched the skin of her stomach, then her ribs. She was crying silently now, her breath hitching in ragged gasps. The silk whispered over her head, muffling the world for a second before she was left holding the garment, exposed from the waist up in her simple, lace-trimmed camisole. She hugged the blouse to her chest, a pathetic shield.
Chika watched, her earlier giddiness gone. In its place was a focused, hungry intensity. This was no longer just about revenge for an insult. This was about discovery. This was about seeing how far the wires would reach.
“Good,” Chika said, her voice low. “Now, fold it. Neatly. A Shinomiya should always be tidy.”
And through the haze of shame, Kaguya’s arms moved again. With meticulous, trembling care, she began to fold the silk blouse on the coffee table, smoothing out the wrinkles her own body had created. The mundane, fastidious action, performed under such duress, was somehow the most devastating thing yet.
Chika stood up. She stepped closer, circling Kaguya, who stood frozen amidst the folded fabric of her dignity.
“You look cold,” Chika whispered, stopping behind her. She reached out and casually looped a finger under the strap of Kaguya’s camisole. She didn’t pull it down. She just let it rest there, a promise and a threat. The touch burned like dry ice. “I wonder what other commands it would listen to. I wonder what it would make you say.”
Kaguya flinched, her entire body going rigid. The last vestige of her pride was a thin, cracking ice sheet over an ocean of panic.
Chika leaned in, her breath hot against Kaguya’s ear. Her next words were a soft, inescapable command.
“Say ‘Thank you, Chika.’”
The words were a key turning in a lock deep inside her skull. “Say ‘Thank you, Chika.’” They echoed, a direct order wrapping around her vocal cords, trying to puppet them into shape.
Kaguya’s jaw, still slack from the earlier command, tightened. A violent tremor ran through her, from her clenched stomach to her tingling fingers. Her throat worked. The compulsion was a physical pressure, a hand around her larynx, squeezing to force the sound out.
A wet, choked gasp was all that emerged. Then a strangled, “Nnng–th–”
She bit down on the syllable, her teeth clicking together. Her body was a battleground. The hypnosis was a wave commanding her to coast, to submit, to let the words flow out and make this easier. But beneath it, a tectonic plate of sheer, obstinate pride ground against the invasion. It was the core of her, the unyielding Shinomiya will that had never, ever thanked anyone for humiliation.
“Thank—” The word got halfway out, mangled and hoarse, before she slammed her mouth shut again. Her entire frame shook with the effort. It was like holding back a vomiting reflex. The command pushed; her identity pushed back.
Sweat beaded at her temples, mingling with the tear tracks. Her crimson eyes, wide and frantic, locked onto Chika’s. There was no plea in them now. Only a furious, desperate refusal.
Chika’s smirk faltered. The playful glee in her eyes flickered, replaced by a spark of confusion, then intense interest. She leaned closer, her nose almost touching Kaguya’s.
“Say it,” she whispered, her voice low and charged. “Come on. ‘Thank you, Chika.’ For the… lesson in humility.”
Kaguya’s lips parted. A whisper-thin sound escaped, air shaped almost into the ‘th’ of ‘thank.’ Then she shook her head, a sharp, jerking motion. “N-no.”
The ‘no’ was clearer. It was hers.
“Wow,” Chika breathed, her confusion melting back into a cruel, admiring smile. “You’re fighting it. That’s actually really impressive. And kinda hot.” She circled Kaguya again, observing her like a lab specimen. “The app must not be perfect. Or maybe you’re just that stubborn.”
She stopped in front of her, looking up at Kaguya’s tortured, defiant face. “Let’s try something simpler. Something easy. You can do easy, right?” Her tone was coaxing, grotesquely sweet. “Nod your head for me. Just nod. Once.”
The order was smaller, less charged. A simple motor function. Kaguya felt the impulse travel down her neck muscles—a gentle, almost inviting pull to just bob her head downward and make the pressure stop.
She resisted.
Her neck tendons stood out like wires. She stared past Chika, focusing on a single, distant point on the Tokyo skyline beyond the windows. She poured every ounce of her being into that one act: stillness. Her head remained rigid, poised on her spine like a statue’s.
But her body, under the dual strains of the compulsion and her own white-knuckled resistance, was failing in other ways. A fresh tear escaped. A line of drovel, unbidden, trickled from the corner of her slack mouth and dripped onto the front of her camisole.
Chika saw it. Her eyes lit up. “Oh! But look at that. You’re still obeying in other ways. The jaw command is still active, see? You can’t even close your mouth all the way. Your body is so confused.”
She reached out, slowly, and wiped the drool away with her thumb. She then brought her thumb to her own mouth and pretended to lick it, grinning at Kaguya’s horrified revulsion.
“So you can fight the new words,” Chika mused, thinking aloud. “But the old ones stick. And fighting looks… exhausting.” She pouted in fake sympathy. “You’re sweating. You’re a mess. Just say the two little words and you can relax. I’ll even let you put your shirt back on.”
The promise of relief was a potent weapon. Kaguya’s arms ached from clutching the folded blouse. The cool air on her skin was a constant shame. The temptation to capitulate, to trade her verbal surrender for a shred of dignity and comfort, was a tangible ache.
She swallowed hard, the motion painful against the unwanted openness of her jaw.
She took a sharp, ragged breath.
“Go,” she rasped. The word was ground out, raw and desperate, but it was her own. “To. Hell.”
Chika’s smile didn’t vanish. It just changed. It softened at the edges, her eyes gleaming with a new, unsettling understanding. She hadn’t broken Kaguya. Not fully. But she had discovered the cracks, the fault lines where the compulsion met a wall and stress fractures appeared. She had seen the proud, perfect Kaguya Shinomiya drool and tremble and weep.
That was enough for now. More than enough.
“Okay,” Chika said, her voice suddenly light and breezy, as if they’d just been discussing the weather. She shrugged and turned, walking back to the sofa and plopping down. She picked up her phone, dismissing the hypnosis app with a few taps. “Man, what a weird afternoon. I should probably get going.”
The sudden shift was more disorienting than any command. The pressure in Kaguya’s head… lessened. It didn’t vanish—the order to keep her jaw slack was still a faint, buzzing echo—but the intense, focused push to speak was gone. The silence that rushed in was deafening.
Her body sagged, almost stumbling forward from the release of tension. She stood there, half-dressed, holding her blouse, utterly bewildered.
Chika scrolled through her phone, not looking at her. “You might wanna get cleaned up. And, you know, eat something. You look pale.” She said it with the casual disregard of someone ending a casual visit, but the words hung in the air, poisoned and heavy.
Kaguya could only stare, her mind scrambling to catch up, to understand the rules of this new, horrifying game. The attack was over, but the invasion was permanent. The proof was in the persistent, unnatural looseness of her own face.
Chika stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She walked to the door, her sneakers squeaking on the marble. She paused, her hand on the elaborate handle, and glanced back over her shoulder. Her pink hair swung, her expression was one of pure, playful malice.
“See you later, Kaguya,” she chirped. “This was fun. We should… play again soon.”
The door clicked shut with a soft, final sound.
In the ringing silence of the penthouse, Kaguya Shinomiya finally, fully crumpled. She didn’t fall to her knees—her body refused that particular memory—but sank onto the edge of the coffee table, her folded blouse falling to the floor. She brought her trembling hands up to her face, trying to massage her jaw closed. The muscles responded sluggishly, obeying her at last.
She sat in the gathering dusk, the city’s lights beginning to glitter beyond the windows, a monument to a world that no longer made sense. The scent of cheap curry and sweat still lingered in the air. And the echo of a laughter that was no longer friendly, but a promise, coiled in the quiet of her own home.
SHE RESISTS.