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He watches. Always watches. I can feel him even when he’s not here! My hands shake without knowing why, my thoughts… are never mine. Sometimes I hear my own thoughts from him before I even think, and I wonder, does he hear them all? Does he always know? I feel hollow, like something inside me has been carved out and left behind, it's as if he takes small parts of me each time I have to undergo a pointless operation. Fear… it sticks to me, and trust feels like a trap I cannot escape! I am not me anymore! I am his experiment, his puppet, a creature that moves and thinks because he allows it. Freedom? What freedom? It’s already gone… stolen long before I even realized it. And the worst part… I think I like it, to have a mentor, to have someone who looks after me. I think I need it… but I hate myself for it! I have had enough of this. I miss who I was before all of... this. I wonder how Tareq is dealing with all of France's bullshit.
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"Sir, I obeyed your instructions without hesitation."
The drink burns as it slides down your throat, unfamiliar and sharp, as if we were swallowing knives rather than liquid. Or maybe that's what he wants? Maybe he wants you to taste something meant to remind you that refusal is never an option. Each swallow feels like a surrender, and you force yourself to accept it, knowing the consequences of hesitation are far worse than any discomfort. Your body, though technically yours, begins to feel foreign, dulled, untrustworthy, as if every nerve is awake to his scrutiny. By the time the night deepens, you lie there fragile and exposed, limbs trembling violently, your stomach coiling and twisting with nauseating intensity. The warmth of the alcohol spreads through you like fire, bitter and unforgiving, until it overflows into vomiting, bitter bile burning your throat and staining your skin. Every convulsion wracks your limbs, your muscles trembling so hard it feels like they might tear, and even your breath is ragged and shallow, caught between dry heaves and shuddering sobs. You want to crawl away, to disappear into the sticky mess of yourself, but your body refuses, still trembling, still shivering, still entirely subject to his scrutiny. You taste yourself; sour, metallic, repulsive, and it makes your stomach heave again, the bile rising with a vengeance, each spasm forcing a shudder that rattles your bones. Strength is a memory, endurance a quiet terror, and the knowledge that he watches every disgusting, shivering moment leaves a hollow, gnawing ache in your chest, marking you as entirely his, fragile, humiliated, and utterly helpless
"Sir, I completed your tasks exactly as you instructed."
You notice the weight of expectation pressing against your chest even before he speaks, a silent force bending your thoughts to his will. Every movement, every instinct, every impulse is filtered through the lens of what he will approve or disapprove, and you realize that your mind itself is no longer entirely yours. Obedience has become reflexive; hesitation is terror. Each breath you take, each glance you allow yourself, is measured against his presence, internalized, catalogued. Even relief feels tainted, a fragile thread of comfort threaded through unease. You sense him in every shadow, every quiet pause, every imagined crease of his brow. The way he treats you cuts deep, a subtle reminder that your autonomy is secondary, your body a tool and your mind a subject of experiment. Dependence has become instinct, and even your own thoughts feel borrowed, constrained by fear and by the subtle insistence of his constant, silent surveillance. Your chest tightens as you imagine displeasing him, your mind racing in endless permutations of compliance and failure, unable to untangle your own desires from the patterns he has imposed.
"Sir, I endured your procedure without complaint."
The moment the blade presses into your side, your body jerks against the tight restraints binding your wrists and legs, a sharp, searing pain tearing through you before you can stop it. You weren’t properly numbed. You can feel it, every inch of it, the split of skin giving way too easily, the heat spreading beneath your ribs as he opens you up. Your breath stutters into uneven gasps, your hands straining uselessly as tears spill uncontrollably down your face. You’ve always hated the sight of blood, the metallic scent thick in the air, and now it’s unmistakably yours, pooling where you cannot look away. You catch a glimpse of the hole in your body, your kidney, something that should have stayed inside you. Your stomach twists violently, a broken sob forcing its way out as the pain overwhelms you. The sensation shifts into something worse, something pulling, something wrong, and your body tenses, arching weakly against the restraints as if you could escape it. It hurts in a way that feels endless, consuming, a relentless pressure that leaves no room for anything but the desperate need for it to stop. Your voice cracks into apologies, into half-formed pleas, words tumbling over each other as if obedience alone might lessen it, as if being good might make him stop. But the pain does not ease, does not pause, only stretches, sharp and invasive, turning every second into something unbearable. You are aware of everything: every movement, every shift, every unbearable sensation, and the knowledge that it is being observed makes it heavier, suffocating, inescapable. When it’s over, there is only a hollow absence where something vital once was, a gaping, aching emptiness that makes your whole body feel wrong. But despite all of your efforts, he still continues. After the excruciating pain you've just experienced, you feel a needle pierce your skin, pulling you back together in slow, deliberate motions, each stitch sharp and precise, forcing your body to twitch weakly beneath him. There is no hesitation, no pause for your sobbing or your trembling, only the steady rhythm of someone unmoved by your suffering. Your cries grow weaker, more broken, your body shaking as exhaustion mixes with pain, leaving you hollow and exposed in a way that feels almost unreal. Every tear, every shuddering breath, every twitch of your body is noted, turned into something clinical, something distant despite how violently it consumes you. Strength means nothing here, endurance is forced, and as the final stitch pulls tight, all you can do is cry, helpless and shaking, painfully aware that even the empty space inside you now belongs to him.
"Sir, I misjudged your instructions."
You fumble, spilling the materials he assigned, and immediately your chest tightens, your pulse spikes, and your thoughts twist in panic. The quiet fury in his eyes cuts sharper than any yell could, and yet the words he offers are almost gentle, almost soothing, a paradoxical mix of correction and indulgence. He talks to you in a way that disgusts you (how much longer do you have to tell him that you're 17?), wrapping your trembling awareness in a mixture of humiliation and reassurance, as though you are a child being scolded and comforted simultaneously. Despite all this, you cling to the warmth of his words, craving approval, yet every syllable reminds you of your inadequacy, every correction a subtle reminder that your mind and body are never solely your own. Fear and comfort are tangled, leaving your thoughts trembling. You're uncertain whether the sensation in your chest is relief, shame, or both. The softness in his voice lingers like a tether, binding you to his surveillance even as it soothes, and you realize that obedience has become an obligation and, no longer a choice, and that even small acts of failure leave your mind and body fraying at the edges.
"Sir, I completed the final step of your operation without resistance."
Fatigue drags through your limbs, a thick, oppressive weight that seems to pulse with every heartbeat. Your muscles ache, your joints burn, and even breathing feels like a laborious task. Every sensation is magnified, the slightest movement a challenge, the lightest touch of air against your skin a reminder of how fragile you have become. You shiver, exhausted, hollow, aware that every tremor, every sigh of pain, every shudder of weakness is observed. The emptiness in your side and chest gnaws at your concentration, a subtle terror coiling in your mind, reminding you that survival now depends on compliance. Even the quietest act of endurance is under scrutiny, every falter catalogued, every twitch noted, a constant reinforcement of the invisible chains holding your body and mind in place. Weakness laces every thought, fear threads through every breath, and you realize that strength is no longer yours, only a fleeting memory used to measure how far you can be pushed.
"Sir, I failed to anticipate your expectations and stumbled."
The anger in his gaze is a palpable force, pressing into your thoughts, bending them, fracturing them. Every fiber of your body tightens in response, and you feel the reflexive shiver of terror curl through your chest and spine. Your mind races desperately, searching for an explanation, a plea, anything to appease the storm, and you swear, on the edge of tears, that you have done nothing “wrong,” that your loyalty is intact. His presence controls you even further, every movement, every word, every breath measured and evaluated as if you were incapable of independent thought. Dependence is not gentle but rather enforced through fear, observation, and the intimate knowledge that even your best intentions are insufficient without his approval. The weight of judgment presses into your skull, suffocating and constant, and you feel small, helpless, and unbearably exposed, wishing desperately to make right what cannot be undone.
"Sir, I completed all the chores you demanded despite my exhaustion."
Your body quivers as you lift, sweep, scrub, and carry again and again, each motion demanding more strength than you have left. Your muscles burn and ache while your joints complain, your pulse races and your chest heaves, but he watches, noting every falter, every tremble, every bead of sweat on your forehead. Even when you collapse to your knees, your fingers raw and shaking, there is no hand to catch you, only the silent insistence that you continue. Humiliation wraps around you like chains, binding you to the task, to his scrutiny, to your own weakness. Every breath, ragged and uneven, reminds you that endurance is no longer optional, that fatigue is part of the experiment, and that your body exists for observation, correction, and the subtle imprint of control he has imposed. The chores pile endlessly, your muscles scream, and yet the unrelenting pressure leaves no pause, no relief, only the knowledge that your suffering is catalogued and marked as another measure of his influence.
"Sir, I completed the final task you requested."
You feel the culmination of everything he has imposed: obedience, fear, reliance, fatigue, humiliation, and the subtle erosion of independence. Every movement carries a trace of his influence, every thought is measured against the invisible standard he has set, and you understand, deep in your chest, that survival, comfort and recognition are all contingent on your compliance. Dependence has become instinctive, and even the quietest moment of solitude is framed by the shadow of his presence. You are aware that the body he has weakened and the mind he has shaped are now inseparable from his observation, and that even your private thoughts carry the imprint of his experiment. Weakness, obedience, and terror have fused into one, and you realize with hollow certainty that a part of yourself has been irrevocably marked, catalogued, and claimed by him. Every shiver, every hesitation, every memory of pain reminds you that there is no escape, only the quiet, suffocating knowledge that you belong entirely to the experiment, to his watchful eyes, to the life he has meticulously reshaped.
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The door opened without a sound. Lebanon didn’t notice at first, too focused on the notebook, pen still hovering in his trembling fingers. Until a sudden shift in the air behind him froze him in place. A presence, close and deliberate, pressed into the room, and his heart lurched. He snapped the notebook shut and fumbled to shove it under the mattress, panic making his movements clumsy and desperate. But before he could hide it completely, he felt the unmistakable weight of another presence at the edge of the bed. France was already there.
“Now, now…” The voice was soft, almost amused, yet it carried an authority that rooted Lebanon to the spot. France’s gaze flickered briefly to the bed, then back to him, as if he were indulging in something predictable, and without a word he slid his hand under the mattress. Within a heartbeat, the notebook was in his grasp, pulled out slowly, deliberately, as if retrieving something fragile rather than forbidden. Lebanon’s stomach dropped, and he barely found the courage to whisper, “M-Monsieur, please—”
“Hm?” France opened the notebook without looking at him. “Let us see what my little one has been thinking so intensely about.” The words were light, almost fond, and that made it worse. Lebanon’s throat tightened, eyes fixed on the floor as France’s gaze swept over each page, silence stretching unbearably, heavy with unspoken observation. When France stopped at the final lines, there was a pause that seemed to hold the weight of everything Lebanon feared.
“You wonder how your brother is handling my… protection?” France said softly. Lebanon shook his head immediately, panic spilling over. “I didn’t mean it like that! I swear, I haven’t done anything wrong—I didn’t, I didn’t talk to anyone, I didn’t go anywhere, I—!” His voice cracked, tears spilling over before he could stop them. “I haven’t done anything wrong…” France closed the notebook with a quiet, deliberate motion, and Lebanon flinched anyway, expecting that he would be thrown down or punished as his mind had already rehearsed a hundred times. But luckily for him, or not, it didn’t happen.
Instead, France sighed softly. “Oh, look at you,” he murmured, almost pitying, his eyes holding that calm, measured observation that was worse than any shout. He reached out, tilting Lebanon’s chin up between his fingers, forcing him to look directly at him. His grip was not harsh, but it was firm, leaving no room for escape. “You really are still so young,” France continued, his voice gentler now, though every word pressed down with authority, reminding Lebanon of the gulf between them. “So quick to panic. So eager to think you’ve done something unforgivable.”
“I—I didn’t—” Lebanon stammered, voice small, breaking under the weight of observation.
“No.” France cut him off softly. “You didn’t.” His thumb brushed just beneath Lebanon’s eye, catching a tear there with a slow, deliberate motion, a small, mocking tenderness that left Lebanon feeling smaller than ever. “But you thought.” The word lingered, heavy and deliberate. “And that is what needs correcting.”
Lebanon’s breath stuttered, uneven, chest tightening as he felt both the scolding and the patronizing affection press in on him. France released his chin only to smooth a hand over Lebanon’s hair, slow and deliberate, as if calming a child after a tantrum, his touch a mixture of dominance and care. “You hide your little notebook,” he said lightly, almost teasing, “you write things you do not understand. You fill your head with unnecessary questions… and then you tremble when I find out. What am I to do with you?”
Lebanon swallowed hard, voice small, breaking. “I’m sorry… I won’t do it again, I promise, I won’t—”
“I know.” France’s tone softened further, almost warm. “Because you learn, don’t you?” A pause followed. “You always do.” His fingers slid down to rest briefly on Lebanon’s shoulder, grounding him in a way that left him frozen. “You will not write about me like this again,” he continued quietly. “Not about yourself. And certainly not about your brother.”
Lebanon nodded quickly, tears still falling as his voice shook. “I won’t! I won’t, I swear—!”
“Shh.” France’s hand moved back to his hair, gentle again, soothing the very panic he had caused. “There is no need to work yourself into such a state,” he murmured. “You are safe here, you know I'd never do anything like that to you ever again.” The words wrapped around Lebanon, heavy and suffocating. “As long as you remember your place.”
Lebanon nodded again, almost automatically, his heart hammering against his chest as his mind kept spinning to what could've happened if France wasn't in a good mood. France leaned back slightly, studying him for a long moment before giving a small, approving hum. “Good,” he said. “That is much better.” He closed the notebook and set it aside, out of reach. “I will keep this for now,” he added lightly. “You are not quite ready to manage your thoughts on your own.” Lebanon’s chest tightened, but he didn’t protest, it's not like he could anyways. France stood, smoothing his sleeve as if nothing had happened at all. “And do not concern yourself with your brother,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “He is not beyond my reach. He just needs more time than you do."
Lebanon’s breath hitched again. France paused at the door, glancing back once more. “My child,” he said softly, “you think far too much for someone who is meant to simply listen.” Then he left, the door closing as quietly as it had opened.
Silence fell thick and suffocating. Lebanon remained where he was, hands gripping the sheets, chest trembling, unable to move. Slowly, he dragged one hand up to his face, roughly wiping away the tears that had fallen suddenly, his knuckles brushing over the damp tracks like he could erase them. A shudder ran through him, anger and distress rising in equal measure, and he slammed his fist into the pillow beside him. Once, hard, then again, weaker, as if even his fury couldn’t hold itself together. Shoulders trembling, jaw tight, he pressed his face into the fabric of the pillow, muffling a sob that threatened to escape. His thoughts spiraled, raw and bitter.
What else am I supposed to do, sir?