Invisible Strings

Three days had passed since that night, and my daily routine had settled into a new, terrifyingly fixed orbit. The soothing balm had quieted the raw patches of skin, but the constant, unyielding weight of the resin cage reminded me with every single step who held control. On my wrist, the Apple Watch measured every restless spike in heart rate, while at home Loona watched me with casual softness over breakfast, offering silent, knowing glances to keep me running my laps without complaint.

It was late Thursday morning, third period, a double block of German. Outside, a bleak early-autumn rain drummed against the tall classroom windows. The room smelled of damp coats, chalk dust, and stale radiator heat.

I sat in the second-to-last row. Sitting on the hard wooden chair after two solid hours was pure torment; the edges of the base ring dug with pinpoint accuracy into my groin the instant I shifted by even a couple of inches. In front of me sat my laptop with the brightness dialed down. Officially, I was supposed to be drafting notes for a poetry analysis.

In reality, a worn notebook covered in Emma’s rushed, scrawling handwriting lay right beside the keyboard. Emma was sitting two rows ahead, right by the window, her long hair spilling loosely over her shoulders as she idly chatted with her seatmate about a party coming up this weekend. She didn't participate in the lesson at all—she didn't have to. That part had been left entirely to me.

My fingers moved silently across the keys. I structured her chaotic thoughts on narrative theory, fixed the grammar, and slotted in textual evidence. With every small adjustment of my legs, denim grated against the casing. A dull, perpetual pulse pushed against the synthetic frame in rhythm with my heartbeat. It was absurd and deeply humiliating: I was sacrificing my own class time, sweating over her assignments, and my body answered the subjugation with a sharp, persistent ache that nearly drove me out of my mind.

At the front of the room, Herr Weber turned to the chalkboard to sketch out an overview diagram.

Without warning, Emma turned around. Not in a rush, but with that slow, bored grace she had perfected over years of schoolyard status. She rested her chin in her open palm, watching me. The corners of her mouth twitched upward by a fraction—that warm, charming smile anyone else in the room would instantly read as harmless kindness.

Yet as she laid her smartphone flat near the edge of the desk, the screen flashed for a fraction of a second. She held the camera at a subtle tilt, aimed straight at my workstation. A faint, muffled shutter snap was drowned out by the scraping of chalk against the board.

Emma’s thumbs flew across the glass in a blur. She threw me one last glance that chilled the blood straight out of my veins, then smoothly turned back to face the front.

Two seconds later, my wrist buzzed.

A quick glance down at the small screen of the Apple Watch was all it took. A push notification from Loona, forwarded directly from her private chat with Emma: a photo of me, head bowed, fingers hovering over the keys, with Emma’s open notebook spread beside them.

Underneath were Loona’s words, razor-sharp and precise:

*Looks very diligent, sweetheart. Emma says you’re doing it almost voluntarily. Be sure to show her later how grateful you are for the work.*

My heart rate spiked through the roof. The watch registered it immediately with a light, cautionary pulse. I stared at the lines, unable to draw a breath. Emma had taken the picture three seconds ago, and already Loona was fully briefed at the penthouse. The connection between them operated without friction, like an invisible string running from my desk straight into Loona’s fingers.

When the bell chimed for the break, I hurriedly gathered my things. Emma was already waiting just outside the doorway. She stood in the busy corridor, one hand tucked casually into her coat pocket, the other holding the strap of her heavy backpack.

“John, so great that you’re done,” she called out with sugary sweetness, loud enough that two girls from the other class glanced over in our direction. With an easy, effortless motion, she handed her bag out to me. “You wouldn't mind carrying this down to the locker bank, would you? My back is killing me today.”

It sounded like a textbook favor between classmates. Nobody batted an eye. Nobody caught the ice running behind her eyes.

I accepted the pack in silence, slinging the extra weight over my shoulder, and felt the heavy drag pull my posture slightly forward—right against the rigid contour of the cage.

“Thanks, you're an absolute angel,” Emma purred. She stepped in close, brushing two fingers across my shoulder in what looked like casual camaraderie. Her voice dropped to a murmur reserved only for my ears: “PDF in my inbox by tonight. And don't forget to send my love to Loona.”

Pivoting on her heels, she strolled away with light, unhurried steps while I trudged through the crowded hallway weighed down by two bags. The cage burned raw, the straps dug deep into my shoulders, and with every step the truth grew clearer: even out here, surrounded by hundreds of people, there wasn't a single place left to hide.