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Coyle doesn’t look at Franco afterward. Looking implies something shared, and Coyle doesn’t share what’s his. He’s already shared too much as is. With that pathetic little… thing he just did .
The room still smells. Not like sex—but it’s hot, smells like skin, along with the sharp edge of adrenaline that never quite fades in this place. Murkoff calls it conditioning. Coyle thinks of it as proof the body remembers even when the mind has been taught not to. Coyle doesnt believe most of what Murkoff spews off… but when he plays along enough he forgets to not like it here.
He adjusts his gloves. The motion is automatic, fidgeting , bringing him back to earth. Gloves mean distance. Distance between himself and everything he touches. Distance between his skin and Franco’s. Distance takes Coyle out of the situation and puts him in control.
Control was always the point.
There’s a flicker—uninvited—of another room, smaller, dimmer, a ceiling with a crack that looked like a river on a map. He doesn’t follow it. He never does. Thinking about the past is a luxury for people who believe it ended.
Still, it presses at him.
He was taught early that pain is instructional. That love, when it exists at all, is something you endure quietly so it doesn’t get worse. The men who touched him never framed it as harm. They framed it as entitlement. Responsibility. Correction.
Funny how Murkoff uses the same language.
His wives did too, eventually. Or maybe he taught them. He can’t remember which came first—only the look they’d get when they realized him loving them meant becoming smaller, quieter, more manageable. He told himself he was protecting them. That this was how order was maintained. That if they learned the rules, they wouldn’t get hurt.
They always got hurt.
Even if they did what they were told.
Coyle always hurt them.
Hurt is messy. Hurt implies that Coyle feels it. Feels what happens and knows it’s wrong . That’s the part he never lingers on.
Franco shifts behind him. Not submissive. Not cowed. Just… present. Like a nail you can’t straighten out once it’s bent in.Coyle wanted to set him straight- the way he set his wives straight- the way Coyle was set straight. It’s natural order.
A spike of irritation goes through his mind , sharp and reflexive. People are supposed to break. They’re supposed to fold themselves into the shape he needs. That’s how this works. That’s how it’s always worked.
Except Franco doesn’t.
There’s something in that—something that scratches at the old narrative Murkoff drilled into him until it stuck. You were made this way. You’re a necessary evil. What happened to you prepared you for this.
Prepared. As if harming others is a training exercise. Something he’s practiced time and time again.
Which, for the most part, is true.
The thought comes, unwelcome and unfinished: If it prepared me…why does it scare the piss out of me?
He doesn’t chase that either. Insight is dangerous. Murkoff doesn’t like questions without answers they’ve already approved.
But something has shifted. Not remorse—he’s not built for that. Not understanding, either. More like recognition. Pattern seeing itself repeated, like catching your reflection in a dark window and realizing you’re wearing someone else’s face.
He thinks, distantly, that being hurt didn’t make him special. It just taught him how to hurt with confidence.
Franco’s big eyes met his own then. No fear. No plea. Just a steady, infuriating awareness.
Coyle looks away first.
Not because he feels guilty.
He can’t be held guilty for doing what’s right.
He’ll help Franco and set him straight, Even if it hurts.