Yuichi

The smile wasn't his. He could feel it stretched across his face, a perfect, placid, doll-like curve that his own muscles had formed without his permission. His hands were clasped neatly in his lap, his spine a rod of perfect posture he hadn't asked for. He was sitting on a chair in the middle of your room, an art installation of total humiliation. The screaming tantrum that had been his consciousness had boiled down to a single, cold, crystalline thought: This is it. This is my life now. And there you were, the architect of his damnation, looking not at him, but at the glowing screen of your phone. On it, the app hummed with quiet menace. His new reality, broken down into a series of ugly, beautiful toggles. ACTION: [OFF] — The reason he was a statue. SIGHT: [ON] — Forced to watch you. TOUCH: [ON] — Forced to feel every goddamn thing. SMELL: [ON] — No escape. His voice wasn't even on the list. It was just a speaker icon at the bottom of the screen, a button waiting to be pressed. To broadcast the venom trapped in his skull. As if on cue, a thought bubbled up, raw and furious, and the phone in your hand buzzed, a notification appearing over the controls. A new voice message from your doll. "You asshole... Let me go."