Page 18 of The Prime-Time Experiment

Declan, who had already demonstrated a willingness to operate within her framework while subtly undermining its application. Declan, who altered variables just enough to remain technically compliant while still making accurate analysis significantly more difficult.

Declan, who would now be directly involved in her own dataset.

The thought settled heavily beneath her ribs. He was not going to make this easy.

At five o’clock, after the final client had left, he had informed her with irritating casualness that she needed to purchase appropriate gym attire from reception before her session began.

The available options had been insufficient. Correction: catastrophically insufficient. Riley had assessed the merchandise methodically, eliminating items that failed basic functional requirements until only two remotely workable options remained.

Very short red bike shorts and a fitted grey gym shirt. The sizing situation had somehow been worse than the clothing itself. Medium, large and extra-large were all unavailable. Riley routinely purchased oversized clothing intentionally; fabric that sat away from the body reduced awareness of movement, pressure and contact. Most of her wardrobe was a size larger than technically necessary for exactly that reason.

Her remaining options had narrowed to either purchasing a 2XL shirt that would interfere with movement through excess fabric, or sizing down to a small.

She had chosen the small, which technically fit.

Riley stood in the bathroom now facing the mirror, adjusting the hem of the shirt for the third time despite already knowing the movement would accomplish nothing.

The fabric clung everywhere. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed by how she looked in the clothes, that wasn’t the issue. Women her age wore gym clothes like this constantly. Objectively, she understood that. It was simply unbearable.

The shorts sat far higher on her legs than she would ever voluntarily choose, the compression impossible to ignore with every shift in weight. The shirt followed the exact lines of her torso instead of hanging away from it comfortably, the material stretching across movement rather than moving independently from it.

She tugged at the hem again automatically, trying to create space between the fabric and her skin. It stuck back against her immediately. Riley exhaled slowly through her nose.

Loose clothing allowed her to forget about it once it was on. Fabric that moved independently from her body faded into the background quickly enough to stop registering as active sensory information.

This did the opposite. Every movement carried feedback with it: the brush of material across skin, compression across her thighs. Restriction through her shoulders whenever she lifted her arms. Nothing disappeared.

The awareness of it sat constantly against her skin now, impossible to deprioritise no matter how many times she attempted to redirect her attention elsewhere.

For one brief moment, Riley felt her control slip, her frustration seeming to override her brain. She straightened immediately.

No, this was still manageable. Uncomfortable did not mean unmanageable. She could adapt. She would adapt.

By the time she returned from the bathroom, the camera setup had changed. Earlier recordings were structured: individual client sessions filmed with consent forms, fixed framing and clearly defined observational parameters she could review later with objectivity intact.

This was different. Now cameras were positioned around the gym floor itself, angled from multiple directions with overlapping coverage that eliminated any clear boundary between active filming and passive observation.

The gym itself had technically closed, but it wasn’t empty. Trainers still moved between scattered clients across the floor, enough lingering activity to prevent the environment from ever settling fully still, which was somehow worse.

Declan stood near one of the camera rigs speaking casually with one of the gym owners, posture loose and completely unaffected by the additional equipment surrounding him. One hand gestured lazily while he talked, his weight shifted onto one leg like none of this required effort from him at all.

As though observation changed nothing. Riley stepped onto the floor carefully, drawing in one slow breath as her gaze moved automatically across the room attempting once again to impose sequence onto the environment.

Weights. Machines. Open floor. Functional space. A logical progression, a pattern. Something repeatable.

It still refused to align.

The lack of resolution drilling further into her skull, her ability to compensate already worn down from hours spent trying to stabilise variables that kept shifting the second she identified them. Her focus snagged repeatedly on movement that dissolved before completion, pathways that refused to hold long enough for her brain to organise them properly.

Then a whistle cut directly through her concentration.

“Looking good there, Riles.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Riley’s expression tightened before she could stop it, nose wrinkling slightly, upper lip pulling back in immediate distaste. Declan saw it, a low laugh escaping him, easy and unrestrained, like her reaction had been expected. Like this was normal, harmless.

Riley’s jaw locked. “Don’t call me that.”

He ignored the correction completely. “First session,” he said instead, glancing briefly toward the nearest camera. “Big moment.”