He reads the book

Chase

The book was thin.

No more than eighty pages, tucked behind a hardcover bound in deep, oxblood red. The texture was leathery, but not quite leather — something synthetic, smooth to the touch like skin stretched too tightly over a frame. No author name on the front, just a subtle watermark that shimmered under the desk lamp: “JC Inc.”

The logo was a jester’s mask. Grinning.

Chase turned it over. On the back, written in spidery gold script:

“Want to learn hypnosis? Learn to bend the world to your words.”

It should’ve made him laugh. Hell, a day ago he might’ve tossed it aside like the other weird junk lying on his shelf — a broken snow globe, a Rubik's cube with one sticker missing, a baseball signed by someone he didn’t even remember. But now?

Now he needed to believe in something. Anything.

So, he opened it.

And something clicked.

Chase read.

And read.

He wasn’t even sure when it became morning. The pages moved fast, written in a strange, poetic language — practical, blunt in places, seductive in others. Not the kind of self-help fluff you’d find in a grocery aisle. No, this was instructional. Clinical. Intimate.

Each page layered something new.

Breathing patterns. Eye contact. Tones and pitches and rhythms. Words that slipped into the subconscious like water soaking into sand.

The book explained how language itself was a weapon. That some minds, especially those seeking structure, routine, control — ironically — were the most **** to relinquishing it.

Chase devoured it all.

From cover to cover, until the sun cast pale light across his bedroom floor.

The final page was simple.

Just a sentence in large bold type:

“You’ve been trained. Now all that’s left… is putting it to the test.”

His eyelids fluttered. He hadn’t slept. Didn’t care. His fingers loosened their grip on the book as his head slumped to the side, still half-erect from the thrill of knowledge that hadn’t fully settled in.

That’s when the door opened.

“Still sulking in here, I see,” came a voice, thick with passive-aggression wrapped in faux affection. “I made you an omelette. Just because I’m mad doesn’t mean I want my son starving.”

It was her. His mother.

Kendra Whitmore. Early 40s, but refused to age beyond 29. With her hourglass figure framed in a silk robe, long legs bare, platinum hair swept into an elegant side-braid, she could’ve passed for a movie star sneaking in a lazy breakfast scene. Her tone was soft, but her jaw clenched when she spoke.

Chase blinked slowly, still groggy, still drunk off the ink of that strange little book. But something in his brain — or maybe it was something deeper — just knew what to do next.

He sat up straight.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said casually. “But before I eat, would you mind doing something for me?”

She raised an eyebrow. “That depends. Is it an apology?”

“No,” Chase replied, staring directly into her eyes, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s a favor. A silly one. But it’ll make me feel better.”

She folded her arms. “Chase—”

“Just humor me,” he cut in smoothly, his voice now laced with the same rhythm he’d practiced all night. Slow, calm, anchoring. “Take a deep breath first.”

“What?”

“Deep breath.”

“Deep breath?”

Kendra paused, one hand still resting on her hip. “What?”

“Just take a deep breath,” Chase repeated, his voice lower now. Calm. Smooth. Like a velvet rope drawing her in.

She rolled her eyes, but sighed, humoring him.

Inhale.

Exhale.

“Good,” Chase said, gently, “Now do another. Slower this time. Focus on how it feels when the air fills your chest, then leaves your body. That’s it.”

He watched her closely. Her chest rose. Fell. Her posture eased ever so slightly, the usual tension in her shoulders beginning to melt — barely noticeable, unless you were looking for it. Which Chase was.

“You’ve had a stressful few days, haven’t you, Mom?” he said, walking toward her slowly. “You’re always carrying everything… trying to control everything. But in this room, right now, you don’t need to do any of that. You don’t have to decide or plan or fix anything. Not when I’m here to take care of you.”

She frowned, lips parting like she might object, but Chase lifted his hand slightly.

“Shhh. No talking. Not yet.”

He wasn’t sure why he did it — it just felt right. And to his shock, his mother’s lips shut softly, her eyes blinking slower now.

“Another breath. You’re doing so well,” Chase whispered, stepping around her. “You’re strong, Mom. But even strong people need to relax. Even strong people need rest. And right now, your body is beginning to remember what it feels like to let go. Like a rubber band snapping back to its original shape.”

She was staring forward now. Unfocused. Her hands had dropped to her sides.

Chase continued.

“Every word I say becomes easier to listen to. Like music in the background. You don’t have to think. You don’t need to analyze. You just follow.”

He walked in a slow circle around her, pacing his words like a metronome.

“Your eyes feel heavier with each breath. Like someone’s turning the lights down inside your head. That tension in your neck is already gone. And soon… so is the need to be in control.”

His mother’s chin dipped. Her shoulders slackened.

“You’ve always been the one giving orders, haven’t you, Mom?” he murmured near her ear. “Always the decision-maker. But you don’t need to be that right now. In fact, the more I speak, the more you want me to tell you what to do. And you like that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she breathed, so softly it was almost inaudible.

Chase smiled.

“Good. Now, close your eyes.”

They shut instantly.

He exhaled slowly, savoring the rush.

His mother — the elegant, domineering **** of nature who spent her life running everything and everyone — stood silently before him, eyes closed, utterly still. Like a statue waiting to be animated.

But he needed proof. Something ridiculous. Impossible

He snapped his fingers. “Dance for me. Like a ballerina. A full performance.”

Without hesitation, his mother lifted her arms into a graceful arc, her body twirling in slow, awkward pirouettes. Her robe swished at her ankles as she turned. Her expression remained blank, her movements elegant but lifeless. Robotic. Like a music box doll wound up and forgotten.

Chase leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching.

Each movement, smooth, precise, yet soulless — like a music box doll mimicking grace without understanding it.

He sat back and watched. Still half in disbelief.

But then came the real test.

“Okay, Mom,” he said slowly, voice like honey over gravel, “I want you to go downstairs and fire Harold.”

She froze mid-turn.

Harold. The butler. Practically family.

Chase’s mother loved that man. She trusted him more than her husband. She would never fire him — not even as a joke.

“You’re going to tell him that his services are no longer required,” Chase instructed softly. “No hesitation.”

Her feet shifted.

She walked toward the door. Robotic. Blank.

And that’s when Chase realized something: this was too obvious. Too zombie-like. If Harold saw her like this, he’d know something was wrong. Hell, she’d know something was wrong once she snapped out of it.

So, he spoke again — carefully.

“One last thing,” he said. “You’re going to act exactly like you normally would. Like you're wide awake. No monotone, no zombie stare. Your full personality returns. But… everything I told you still feels completely natural. Like it was your idea all along.”

Her gait shifted immediately.

Posture straightened. Shoulders squared. She ran a hand through her hair. The grace was back — but now it was hers. Real. Poised. The version of his mother everyone else knew and admired.

Only now she was about to go do something utterly unthinkable.

Chase felt a chill run through him.

He didn’t just hypnotize her.

He rewired her.

Book in hand, he followed her out of the room in silence — a predator watching his prey walk willingly into the trap.

Chase trailed behind his mother in silence, staying just far enough to observe, but close enough to intervene if things went sideways.

She moved with purpose. Feet tapping steadily on the marble tiles, shoulders back, expression tight and composed. To anyone watching, she looked like a woman with a mission — the kind of intimidating **** you didn’t question. But Chase knew the truth: she was still acting on the last suggestion he gave her.

They made their way past the family wing, into the more reserved quarters where Harold, the longtime butler, kept his modest lodgings.

She didn’t knock.

The door was open and Harold was inside, going over the household schedule with his reading glasses perched low on his nose.

“Miss Kendra?” he said, surprised, standing up politely. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes,” she said curtly. “You’re fired.”

Harold blinked. “I… I beg your pardon?”

She stepped in fully, arms crossing over her chest, the same way she might when disciplining staff who’d truly crossed a line.

“You’re no longer required. Pack your things. Someone will send the rest of your belongings to your residence later.”

Harold’s composure cracked ever so slightly. “If this is about the incident yesterday, I didn’t know what Master Chase had been up to, I assure you I’ve served this house with—”

“This isn’t a debate,” she cut in sharply, voice calm, perfectly natural. “You’ve become a liability. And your attitude has grown lax.”

That hit him like a slap. “But ma’am—”

“My decision is final,” she said firmly. “I expect the room cleared in ten minutes. Goodbye, Harold.”

Chase stood still in the hallway, half-thrilled, half-horrified. The confidence, the fluidity — she didn’t stumble once. She was so convincing, even he nearly forgot she was under his control.

Harold, red-faced, took a deep breath and adjusted his coat. “Very well, ma’am,” he said tightly, brushing past her toward the hallway with what little dignity he could muster.

As he rounded the corner and disappeared from view, Chase turned his eyes back to his mother.

She hadn’t moved.

Her arms hung loosely by her sides now, eyes glassy and forward-facing. Lips parted just slightly.

The performance was over.

Kendra stood there blankly, like a music box dancer whose song had ended — waiting for the key to turn again.