Claus brought Luther to my living room.
I feel rather embarrassed to admit I was excited—like a middle schooler right before pouring vinegar into their baking soda volcano.
I was waiting for the boom.
My plan covers all the necessary points to break down subjects emotionally. I don't like loose ends. Or things outside of my control.
There are a few things in that category: the weather, maybe traffic, sometimes the cooks at those overpriced restaurants where I'm forced to dine with sponsors before fucking with their money.
All in the name of science.
But from today on, I'm not just fucking with the Prime Minister's money.
I'm fucking his son, too.
And I'll tape it. For research.
It's simple. I've got Luther for about two weeks.
Day one: I kidnapped him. Cut him open. Rearranged his guts.
No results.
Day two: Served him breakfast. Gave him comfort. Showed him my basement. Scared him. I dimmed the lights to isolate him psychologically. Was about to kiss him—to test if arousal triggered his poison.
Got interrupted.
No results.
Day three: Moved him to a white room. No windows. No clocks. Disorientation. Three meals. Small talk. Tried to undo the damage done by my one-neuron chihuahua of an assistant.
Continued for four days.
Day five: Changed my appearance to look "normal." Ruptured his safe space with a single question.
Isolation.
Days six to fifteen: No contact. No comfort. No food. No filtered water.
Silence.
Day fifteen: Returned. Offered him something that should be a human right. Made him feel cheap. Used sirens to reignite his last flickers of hope—then crushed them.
By now, I should have a shell of a human to play with.
So imagine my surprise when Claus dragged him in, and he still bit back. Starving, half-dead, inhaling the food I made—and still? Deaf to me.
I had prepared a dialogue. Sharp. Elegant. Something to shape him like wet clay in the palms of my hands.
No results.
With Luther, I can't seem to pull the right strings.
Every other patient needed less—far less—to be brought to the brink of suicide.
And yet Luther, with fucking poppy seeds stuck between his pearly whites, had the audacity to sass me.
You know what?
Fine.
I still have Claus as an ace up my sleeve.
"I'm about to get fakely stabbed in the next minute. And in two days, you'll be tamed enough to cum on cue."
Luther didn't respond.
He just doesn't hear me. But Claus did.
And that was enough.
It was the right impulse to move him. Just like all the other puppets I've orchestrated—he played his part.
I needed a wound. A real one. Something tangible for Luther to treat. Something wet and red to drag his conscience into contact.
So I marked a small dot on my lab coat. Clear enough for the moron to stab exactly there—avoiding anything vital.
To my surprise, he did a good job.
Of course, a beating was due—to sell the scene. Did I tell him about that part of the plan?
I can't remember.
Oh well.
Luther was thrown back into the white room.
He'll sit there two more days.
Until then, I have to stitch myself up. Badly.
Maybe get a bit of infection. No to the point of puss leaking out since that might ruin the mood, but just enough.
And I need to send the Prime Minister the tape.
So he could see that even betrayals are nothing but points on my checklists.
I patched up my wound in the surveillance room. Not exactly sanitary.
It's the same room where I've been watching and analyzing Luther for the past two weeks.
I must say—his night terrors are quite a spectacle. The way he pleads for his father in his sleep?
My God, Freud would've wet himself.
To clean out my wound while watching him unravel in 4K right there on the screen? It felt intimate. Like a pubescent boy discovering porn for the first time.
Finally, something worked.
All the prior results—the blood tests, tissue samples, chemical reactions—gave me nothing. Not a flicker of promise. Not even the kiss triggered a bloom.
This doesn't either. But he's getting emptier. Emptier by the hour.
And even if that means nothing to his father, to Claus, or to any other half-wit breathing in this rotting system—
To me, it means I finally have the perfect pet to plan the fall of society with.
And that had my panties in a goddamn clinch.
I was stitching myself up mid dry-orgasm.
While he sobbed against that white padded door.
A phone call disturbed my very filthy moment with Luther.
Killian
"I'm in"
Fuck, talk about bad timing.