Page 21 of The Associate
Go. Move. Leave. Now.
But his legs refused the command.
His body was locked in; his shoulders wire-tight, his breath coming in short, ragged pants. His heartbeat thudded in a fast, unsteady rhythm he could feel pounding in his throat, behind his ears, a frantic drumbeat in the very center of his ribs.
He sensed it a moment before it fully landed, a shift in the atmospheric pressure:
Gael’s attention turning its full, undiluted focus toward him.
It felt like stepping directly into the path of a high-powered spotlight; except the light was cold, exacting, a beam that saw straight through skin and bone to the raw, trembling core beneath. Samuel didn’t lift his head; he didn't need to see to know. He could feel the intensity of that gaze tracking over him.
It moved down the rigid line of tension corded in his shoulders.
It swept across the uncontrollable twitch in his grip on the mug.
It followed the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his chest.
It noted the subtle collapse of his posture, the way he seemed to be folding in on himself without any conscious intention.
His throat tightened painfully, a band of pure anxiety.
He tried to inhale properly, but the air hit the back of his lungs in useless bursts. His vision began to edge with a faint, indistinct grey, a haze of panic, adrenaline, and fragmented memory; he couldn’t tell which was which anymore. His skin prickled with a crawling sensation that screamed at him to flee, to hide, to disappear into the nearest bathroom stall and lock the entire world out.
But his feet were superglued to the spot.
Frozen.
Trapped.
Pinned by nothing more than the immense weight of Gael Wise’s quiet, penetrating stare.
He swallowed again, or tried to; the movement felt jagged and painful.
A muscle in his jaw twitched involuntarily.
His mind kept short-circuiting, repeating the same useless, frantic directive on a loop:
Move. Move. Move. Please, just move.
But his body remained a rigid, disobedient statue.
He wasn’t sure exactly when the chilling thought finally hit him; whether it was a second before or a second after he finally, with a monumental effort, forced his eyes to lift just a fraction, just enough to meet the dark, waiting gaze.
It didn’t matter.
It was already too late.
∞∞∞
15 years before
The gymnasium smelled of old varnish and the sour odor of adolescent sweat; the air thick beneath the relentless glare of fluorescent lights that flickered with an uneven hum. The windows were set high up on the walls, narrow and grimy, letting in only thin, dusty slivers of morning light that cut across the floor in pale stripes. The boys were lined up along a faded blue boundary line, their backs straight, their heels together, their arms stiff at their sides.
“Posture is obedience,” the counselor barked, his voice echoing as he paced slowly in front of them. His heavy work boots made sharp, percussive taps against the polished wood.
Samuel kept his eyes fixed on a single, specific spot on the opposite wall, where the cheap blue paint had chipped away to reveal the grey plaster beneath. His shoulders screamed with a deep, burning ache, his muscles trembling in tiny spasms.
They had been standing there for nearly an hour. It felt like ten.
