Chapter 2: Screaming in the Dark
The scream tore through the velvet dark, a raw, animal thing that didn’t sound like Matt at all.
Priya’s eyes were open before the sound finished echoing. She was already sitting up, the silk sheet pooling at her waist. Beside her, Matt thrashed, tangled in damp linen, his freckled skin slick with cold sweat that caught the faint moonlight from the window. His chest heaved, his eyes wide open but seeing nothing in the room.
“Strings,” he gasped, his voice shredded. “I could see the strings—”
Her hand shot out, not to comfort, but to clamp over his mouth. Her fingers were strong, pressing hard against his lips. “Silence.” The word was a whip-crack in the quiet bedroom.
He whimpered against her palm, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of the dream. The scent of his fear was sharp, sour. Over by the door, Connor stirred from his pallet on the floor, a shadow rising.
“Stay,” Priya commanded without looking. Connor froze, then slowly sank back down.
She removed her hand from Matt’s mouth and replaced it with her other palm on his damp forehead. Her thumb pressed into the space between his eyebrows. His wild, terrified gaze locked onto hers. The dark pools of her eyes seemed to absorb the moonlight, offering no reflection.
“Down,” she whispered.
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a trigger, laid months ago, woven into his subconscious with the care of a spider spinning silk. His breathing hitched, stuttered, then evened out into a slow, mechanical rhythm. The tension bled from his muscles. He went limp against the pillows, his blinking slow and heavy.
“Deeper,” she said, her voice a low, resonant hum. She kept her thumb in place, a physical anchor for the psychic dive. “You are floating. The dream is just smoke. My voice is the only real thing. Nod if you understand.”
His head nodded, a puppet on a gentle string.
“Good. Now, you will tell me about the dream. Every detail. Speak slowly.”
His voice emerged, flat and distant. “I was on the chaise. But I was also above myself, watching. You were there, but you were… bigger. Your fingers were pulling strings attached to my wrists, my jaw. I could feel them. I could see them. And I knew. I knew what I was. What we all were. And you smiled and said… ‘the breeding stock is finally self-aware.’ Then you pulled the strings and I…”
He trailed off. A single tear escaped his entranced eye and tracked through the sweat on his temple.
Priya’s mind raced, cold and analytical. This was a problem. A deep, subconscious resistance was bubbling up, framing her control as a literal puppet show. It was poetic, in a pathetic sort of way. The “breeding stock” line was clearly an echo of her own recent focus, distorted by his anxiety. It needed to be cauterized, and then buried so deep it could never find its way back.
“Listen,” she cooed, stroking his hair now. “The dream was a gift. It was your mind showing you its deepest desire. To be so perfectly connected to me that every movement is in harmony. The strings were a metaphor for that bond. A beautiful, divine bond you are privileged to feel.”
She watched his face. The confusion softened marginally.
“But the fear was a lie. Your conscious mind interpreted it wrong. So we are going to correct the interpretation. We are going to rewrite the dream. From now on, when you dream of strings, you will feel only profound peace. You will feel the exquisite joy of being guided. Of being chosen to please me. The word ‘breeding’ will trigger feelings of pride, of purpose. Of deepest belonging. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Matt breathed.
“When you wake, you will remember only a vague, pleasant dream about us. A dream about connection. The fear, the puppet, the stock… all of it will dissolve. It will taste like sugar on your tongue and then be gone. Your reality is here, with me. Your purpose is here. Your pleasure is mine to give. Repeat that.”
“My pleasure is yours to give.”
“Again.”
“My pleasure is yours to give.” His voice was stronger, falling into the familiar, devotional rhythm.
She worked on him for another twenty minutes, layering new suggestions over the fractured ones, reinforcing the architecture of his devotion. She tied the sensation of the strings to the physical feeling of her hands on his body. She anchored the concept of ‘breeding’ to the warm, full feeling he got when she praised him. By the end, his breathing was deep and even, his expression slack with serene contentment.
She snapped her fingers.
He blinked awake. He looked at her, his eyes clearing. A soft, embarrassed smile touched his lips. “Hey. Did I… was I talking in my sleep? I had the weirdest dream.”
“You were mumbling,” she said, lying back down, her voice casual. She traced circles on his bare chest. “Something about flying. Sounded nice.”
“Yeah,” he said, snuggling against her, his nightmare already a formless, fading impression. “It was nice. You were there.” He kissed her shoulder. “Sorry I woke you.”
“It’s okay.” She stared at the ceiling, listening to his breathing settle into the rhythm of sleep. The crisis was averted, but it was a warning. Matt’s programming was the oldest, after Michael’s. It was complex, intertwined with his genuine affection for her. That complexity made it fragile. Like over-typed vellum, the old words could sometimes show through.
She needed a more permanent consolidation. A physical anchor for his psychological state.
The next morning, sunlight cut through the gaps in the burgundy drapes, painting stripes across the mahogany dresser. Matt was in the shower. Priya stood in her silk robe before the bathroom mirror, wiping a clear circle in the steam. She watched his blurry form behind the glass door for a moment, then opened the medicine cabinet.
Behind a stack of linen towels was a small, unmarked box. She took out a single, plastic-wrapped stick. She waited until she heard the water shut off.
“Matt? Come here for a second.”
He stepped out, dripping, his hair a chaos of dark curls. He toweled off quickly, a smile on his face. “What’s up?”
She held out the pregnancy test. “I’m late.”
His smile froze. His eyes darted from her face to the stick and back. His freckles seemed to darken against his suddenly pale skin. A cascade of emotions—shock, fear, a staggering burst of pride—flashed in his green eyes. “Late? You mean…?”
“I mean I’m late. I took one yesterday. It was negative. But my body feels… different.” This was a lie. Her cycle was clockwork. But his belief was the material she needed. “I want you to be with me when I take this one. Right now.”
She saw it click into place in his mind. The breeding fantasy, now hovering on the edge of possibility. The ultimate purpose. The permanent string.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, his voice full of awe. He reached for her, his hand trembling. “Priya.”
“Just sit with me,” she said, leading him to the edge of the bed. She opened the wrapper with deliberate slowness, a ritual. She explained the process, her tone clinical yet intimate. She left him sitting there, the test on the sink, and went into the bathroom.
She didn’t actually use it. She ran the tap, tore open the absorbent tip to invalidate it, and waited three full minutes, watching the steam condense on the tiles.
When she came out, she held the stick face-down.
“I can’t look,” she said, and her performance was perfect—a hint of vulnerability, a crack in the flawless facade. “You look.”
Matt took it, his breath held. He turned it over.
The result window, of course, was blank. A faulty test. A non-result.
His face fell, then twisted in confusion. “There’s… there’s no line. It’s just blank.”
Priya let her own face fall, mixing disappointment with gentle concern. She took the stick from him and examined it, then sighed. “It’s defective. Damn it. These things happen.” She tossed it into the wastebasket.
He stared at the basket, his dream of fatherhood—her carefully implanted dream—dangling, unresolved. The anxiety was back, but it was focused now, narrow. Not on strings and puppets, but on a potential child. A future. His need for closure, for an answer, was a hook in his jaw.
“We’ll try again in a few days,” she said, touching his cheek. “My body is telling me something might be different this time. But we need to be sure.” She let her thumb trace his lower lip. “The waiting is hard, isn’t it? Not knowing if you’ve… succeeded.”
He nodded, utterly captive to the new narrative. The nightmare was gone, replaced by this agonizing, beautiful suspense. He pulled her into a tight, wet hug. “Whatever happens,” he murmured into her neck, “I’m here. I’m yours.”
“I know,” she said, over his shoulder, her eyes cool and assessing in the morning light. She had successfully replaced a fear of enslavement with a craving for paternity. The former could make him bolt. The latter would make him beg to stay.
Downstairs, she made coffee. Connor was already in the kitchen, dressed, silently loading the dishwasher from last night. He moved with a quiet efficiency. She paused, watching the muscles in his back move under his thin t-shirt.
“Connor.”
He turned immediately, his dark eyes lowering. “Yes, Priya?”
“How do you feel about Matt?”
Connor didn’t hesitate. The answer was part of his bedrock. “He is beloved. He is important to you. I serve him as I serve you.”
“Good.” She sipped her coffee. “If he ever seems… troubled. Anxious. You come tell me. Immediately. You don’t ask him about it. You don’t console him. You report it. Understand?”
“I understand.” He nodded once, then went back to his task.
The system was reinforced. She took her coffee into her home office. The chaise still held the ghost of Ryland’s visit. She ran her hand over the leather, a faint smile touching her lips. The virgin. That was a project that required a different kind of focus. But Matt was stable again, for now. The panic had been channeled into a more useful uncertainty.
She opened her laptop, pulled up a blank document. She typed a single line, a new entry in her private logs.
Subject M: Depth maintenance required. Instilled variable-reward paradigm re: procreation. Puppet metaphor successfully deprecated. Next consolidation session: 72 hours. Recommend physical reinforcement (bondage) to re-associate restraint with security.
She closed the laptop. From upstairs, she heard Matt humming in the bedroom, making the bed. The sound was light, happy. She listened to it, the way a gardener might listen to the sound of a well-watered plant growing in the sun.
The chapter ended not with a scream, but with a hum. The crisis was not solved, but skillfully diverted into a maze with no exit. The narrative had turned inward, tightening its grip. And in the city, a tall, skinny blonde boy named Ryland scrolled through his phone, waiting for a text about a rescheduled group session, feeling a strange and persistent longing for a woman with dark, knowing eyes.
And in the city, a tall, skinny blonde boy named Ryland scrolled through his phone, waiting for a text about a rescheduled group session, feeling a strange and persistent longing for a woman with dark, knowing eyes.
He finally put the phone down, the screen dark. The longing didn’t fade. It felt like a bruise he kept pressing.
Later that week, Priya’s silver car idled at the curb of the sprawling suburban high school. The air smelled of cut grass and exhaust. Tyler leaned across the console, his tennis bag digging into the gear shift, and kissed her with a hungry, adolescent urgency. His tongue was eager, tasting of mint toothpaste.
She let him, her hand cradling the back of his neck, controlling the depth and the pace. His backpack thumped against the door. A group of students in letterman jackets walked past, whooping. Tyler flinched, but Priya held him tighter, claiming him right there in the driver’s seat. She finally pulled back, swiping her thumb over his wet lower lip.
“Have a good day at school, baby,” she said, her voice a low purr.
“Bye, Mommy,” he whispered, his face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and devotion. He scrambled out, adjusting his jeans, and jogged towards the brick building without looking back.Mommy. The word hung in the quiet, air-conditioned space of the car. Priya watched him go, a slender, tan figure merging with the flood of other students. A peculiar clarity settled over her. The intense, almost hormonal focus she’d been cultivating with Matt—the breeding fantasy—suddenly felt redundant. Why go through the physical mess and permanent anchor of a real infant when she had this? A beautiful, athletic boy who came pre-trained, who called her Mommy with genuine reverence, and who she could send away at three PM?
The fantasy was more perfect than the reality could ever be. She started the car, the realization cooling her blood like a rational draft.
Her office welcomed her with its silent, amber embrace. She sank into the chair behind her polished desk, the one she used for actual, billable therapy. The computer whirred to life. For a while, she reviewed patient notes, her mind clinically partitioning the morning’s insight about Tyler away from her professional facade.
But the quiet hum of the building soon felt hollow. The itch returned, subtler now, but persistent. It wasn’t about filling a maternal void. It was about the hunt. The acquisition. She closed the medical portal and opened a private browser.
Instagram loaded, a cascade of curated life. She typed a few precise hashtags into the search bar: #DCmodel #athletic. She scrolled, her eyes scanning with a detached, appraisalal speed. She dismissed overly muscular bodies, overtly styled looks. She sought a specific alchemy of youth, accessibility, and a hint of something unformed.
And then she found him.
Jared. @Jared.C. Twenty-two. His feed was a mix of professional headshots—sharp jawline, short, tousled brown hair, and casual, sun-drenched snaps from what looked like a shared apartment in Arlington. In one, he laughed on a rooftop, holding a cheap beer. His eyes, a clear, bright blue, squinted against the sun. There was an ease to him, a boy-next-door quality that wasn’t pretending.
Priya zoomed in on the rooftop photo. Her fingernail tapped the screen, right over his throat. He was perfect. Not in a glossy, untouchable way, but in a real, tangible way. He was the kind of beautiful boy who probably had roommates, who took the Metro, who maybe even had student debt. He was, in other words, reachable.
She navigated to his followers. Five thousand. Manageable. She clicked on a few profiles, piecing together a digital footprint. A community college. A gym. A tagging mention from a friend’s birthday at a mid-tier bar in Dupont Circle.
A slow, calculating smile touched her lips. This was a different kind of project. Matt had been a referral. Ryland, a gift delivered by Matt. This would be a direct acquisition. She would need a plausible point of entry. A workshop for models on performance anxiety, perhaps. Or a wellness webinar targeting young creatives. She could fabricate the invite, make it exclusive enough to be enticing, casual enough to not raise alarms.
She took a screenshot of his profile, saving it to a hidden folder labeled ‘Research.’ Her heart beat a steady, anticipatory rhythm. The vague dissatisfaction she’d felt since managing Matt’s nightmare dissolved, replaced by the sharp, pleasurable focus of a new design. She leaned back, staring at Jared’s smiling, frozen face.
The game was always better than the prize. And she had just decided on her next move.
And she had just decided on her next move. The following evening, the glow of her laptop screen painted her face in cold blue light. Jared’s Instagram profile was open, his smile frozen in a grid of casual perfection. Priya’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. The message needed to be flawless—brief, intriguing, and devoid of the desperation that clogged most unsolicited DMs.
She typed. "Hi Jared. Apologies for the out-of-the-blue message. I'm Priya, a performance psychologist consulting with a few local agencies. Your comp card came across my desk (loved the Emerson shoot). I'm running a very small, pilot workshop on cognitive techniques for in-the-moment focus—specifically for commercial and lifestyle models. No fee, just looking for a few good subjects to refine the method. If you're interested, I'd be happy to share the details. No pressure either way."
It was a spray of calculated keywords: consulting, agencies, pilot workshop, no fee. It offered legitimacy, exclusivity, and an escape hatch. She attached a link to a sleek, minimalist website she’d built years ago for this exact purpose. Then she hit send. The notification whooshed into the digital void. She leaned back, the quick, sharp thrill of the hunt buzzing in her veins. The hook was set. Now she waited.
Ryland’s room was a shoebox. The single window overlooked a brick wall and a humming AC unit. He hadn’t slept properly in days. A low, constant static filled his head, and at the center of the noise was her face. Priya. The memory of his visit to her office was a smeared watercolor: the lamplight, her voice, a profound feeling of peace that ended too soon. Then nothing. A blank space where concrete memory should be.
He’d texted Matt twice. “Hey man, any word on that reschedule?” The first reply was cheerful: “She’s swamped! Soon tho!” The second, hours later, was just a thumbs-up emoji. Ryland stared at his phone now, the glow illuminating the dark circles under his eyes. He opened his camera roll and swiped back to the rooftop party picture. He zoomed in on his own face, laughing. He looked like an idiot. A free idiot.
He closed the app and opened a blank note. He began typing, a stream of consciousness he’d never send. I keep smelling sandalwood. I feel like I’m waiting for a bus but I don’t know the route. What did we talk about? Why can’t I remember what we talked about? I think she touched my hand. Did she touch my hand? I need to see her again. I just need to sit in that room again and I know this feeling will stop.
He deleted it all. The emptiness returned, wider and deeper. He got up, paced the three steps to his wall and back. His body felt wrong—achy, restless, simultaneously wired and drained. He had to work the opening shift at the vegan cafe in five hours. The thought of steaming oat milk and making polite chatter made his skin crawl. All he wanted was the silence of her office, the weight of her attention. He didn’t understand it. He just knew it was the only thing that mattered.
Priya’s phone chimed softly, a discrete tap on the glass table. It was a direct message reply.
Jared.C: Hey Priya. Thanks for reaching out, I really appreciate it. The Emerson shoot was a fun one. The workshop sounds interesting—definitely something I could use. My schedule’s kinda all over the place but I’m curious to hear more.
A smile, slow and genuine, spread across her face. The curiosity was the key. It was always the key. She crafted her reply with deliberate pauses, never letting it seem eager.
Priya: Of course. It's about finding calm in the chaos of a set. Would you have time for a quick coffee this week? I can explain the methodology in person—it's easier than texting. I'm in Georgetown most days.
She attached a pin for a boutique coffee shop near her office, a place with high-backed booths and soft lighting. Neutral territory. Professional. Safe.
His reply came faster this time.
Jared.C: Yeah, I could do Thursday morning? Like 10?
Priya: Thursday at 10 is perfect. I'll see you then, Jared. Look forward to it.
She set the phone down, screen-first. The meeting was set. The first domino had been tipped. She allowed herself a single, deep breath of satisfaction, the scent of sandalwood from a nearby diffuser filling her lungs. The machinery of acquisition was so beautifully simple. Identify the need, offer the solution, facilitate the proximity. Everything else was just applied psychology.
In his apartment, Ryland finally lay down on his unmade bed. He closed his eyes. Immediately, a fragmented sensation assaulted him—the soft crush of leather under his back, a dazzling light moving above him, a voice that was both inside and outside his head saying “Deeper.” He jerked upright, heart hammering. It wasn’t a memory. It was a ghost. It was a loop his mind was stuck in, and the only way out was through her.
He picked up his phone. He didn’t text Matt this time. Instead, he pulled up the website for her therapy practice, the one listed on the card Matt had given him months ago. There was a contact form. His thumb hovered. He typed three desperate, unprofessional words: “I need help.” He deleted them. He typed, “Hello, I was referred by Matt for a consultation. Are you accepting new clients?”
He stared at the words. They felt pathetic and insufficient. They didn’t convey the urgency, the physical yearning, the hollow terror in his gut. He added one more line, a plea disguised as professionalism.
“I am available at your earliest convenience. Thank you.”
He hit send before he could rethink it. The message vanished into the ether of her professional inbox. A sob he didn’t understand climbed up his throat. He choked it back, swallowing the salt and panic. Now, there was nothing to do but wait. The static in his head dialed up to a deafening scream, and through it, all he could hear was the echo of her voice, promising a peace he could no longer live without.